


kiss me out of desire, baby, not consolation

by ViolyntFemme



Series: kiss me [1]
Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Bottom Harry, Bottom Merlin, Canon-Typical Violence, Come play, Complete, Drug Use, External Homophobia, F/M, Harry Hart/OFC - Freeform, Harry Hart/OMC - Freeform, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Internal homophobia, M/M, Merlin/OMC - Freeform, NC happens off-screen, Past Child Abuse, Percival/James | Lancelot - Freeform, Self-Hatred, Top Harry, Top Merlin, Top Percival, alternating POVs between Harry and Merlin, angst it's whats for dinner, coming out late in life, consensual underage teenage fumblings, homophobia is typical for the time period trust me, homophobic violence, it will be tagged in the chapter, lots of swearing because i have a foul mouth, merlin/percival - Freeform, switch!Merlin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-06 00:15:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 75,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11589084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViolyntFemme/pseuds/ViolyntFemme
Summary: Five minutes later they are leaving the town behind them. Ian resists the urge to press his fingers to his mouth.“How the fuck did you know I wouldn’t punch you the minute you stuck your tongue in my mouth?”“To be honest, I didn’t, but with someone tailing us, I figured the devil you know is better than the one you don’t.”“You don’t know me at all,” Ian responds, turning his face toward the window.--------Pulled into each other's orbit when they met in the Galahad trials, it was no surprise when Ian and Harry fell in love. Unfortunately, sometimes love isn't enough to keep them together.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a completed work, having 11 chapters in all. Five will be going up today while the remaining six will be posted within the next seven days. What days will be dependent on my work schedule. 
> 
> Before you start reading, please be warned that this is not a Super Happy Gay Spy Husbands fic. This is two men falling in love while one character deals with his internalized homophobia, self-loathing, and sense of shame over his attraction to men. This is that character being a bit of a dick until he gets his shit together. There is little to no fluff here, my friends.
> 
> Also, there is a brief allusion to Non Con in the last chapter, but the actual act takes place off screen. I will post a warning again in Chapter 11. 
> 
> Many thanks to [thatgirlwho](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thatgirlwho/pseuds/thatgirlwho) and [reindeerjumper](http://archiveofourown.org/users/reindeerjumper/pseuds/reindeerjumper) whose excitement for this fic kept me from deleting the entire thing at 40K words. I hope it lives up to expectations.
> 
> The title comes from the soing Last Goodbye by Jeff Buckley.
> 
> Lastly, Ian is our Merlin before he becomes Merlin, and Harry, well Harry is just Harry.

**1986 - Harry is 25, Ian is 24**

Ian McClaggen stands in a loose line, at parade rest, with eight other men in a dormitory. An older man comes in. He is in his early forties, as tall as Ian, possibly an inch or so taller, and with thick red hair that gleams copper underneath the florescent lighting. He is dressed in a waistcoat and trousers, complete with a pocket watch tucked into the waistcoat’s pocket.  He introduces himself as Merlin, tells them they are competing in the world’s deadliest job interview, and instructs them to write the names of their next of kin on the body bags in front of them. This last direction brings Ian up short. Having been raised in an orphanage from a babe, he really has no next of kin. He shrugs, writes that cunt of a woman Mother Superior’s name, and goes on about his business. At least this way, if he does end up coming out on the wrong end of this “deadly” job interview, he will go out knowing she’ll be joining him in hell.

Within the hour the group has been in the dormitory he has covertly sized everyone up and decided who he will take out first to ensure that he wins. 

“I’m sure it doesn’t mean anything,” a voice says from behind him. “I hardly doubt they are going to put someone’s gran in a body bag.”

He turns and looks, already asking, “You’re sure what doesn’t mean…?” Ian groans inwardly as he sees that the speaker is the one man in the entire group Ian had no intentions of ever speaking to. The poncy little fuck with the ridiculous curly hair. Seriously, has the man never heard of a comb? 

To make matters worse, Ian sees the git placing his duffle on the bed next to his. Ponce sticks out his hand. “Harry Hart, the pleasure is mine,” and he’ll be damned but if Hart doesn’t look like he genuinely means it. 

Ian takes the proffered hand quickly and brusquely. “Ian McClaggen,” he mutters, already turning back to stow his own duffle and wishing he could just choose another bed. 

Hart keeps talking. Ian wonders if he remembered his brass knuckles.

“Scotland, eh?”

“What gave it away?” Ian grumbles. 

“The rather large stick up your arse,” Hart shoots back. Ian looks over his shoulder, his eyebrows raised, and wonders if Hart has bigger balls than he originally gave him credit for. When their eyes meet Hart just smiles and winks at him before reclining on his bed, donning circular, wire-framed glasses, and opening a book. 

Ian shakes his head once, strips down to his pants, gets into bed, and goes to sleep. Hart will be gone in a week Ian thinks to himself. A public schoolboy like him doesn’t stand a cunt hair’s chance in a high wind of becoming a fucking spy.

—————

Harry feigns reading a book while he cuts his eyes quickly to the side a few times as his new roommate does the most unselfconscious disrobing Harry has ever had the pleasure of seeing. Harry can tell Ian instantly dislikes him, taking in the surface persona Harry projects, a polite and earnest little toff who has a pocket full of Daddy’s money and Mummy’s ear. That is fine with him. He purposely cultivates that exact persona because it will make everyone in the room underestimate him. Granted all of the men here, with the exception of Ian, who seems a bit more working class, and some bloke named Christopher, who is  _definitely_ working class, are rich, entitled little wankstains, but they also are strapping young men who obviously played sports, lifted weights, and crushed cans against their foreheads. Because of Harry’s slender frame and excellent manners, he is often overlooked as competition by brutes like them. 

Perfect. 

Although, he hopes Ian doesn’t wash out too terribly soon. He is incredibly attractive, tall with broad shoulders and muscular legs. Even the fact he is bald doesn’t put Harry off, instead it just adds to the severe, powerful aura he seems to exude. It would be a shame not to see him in action at least a few times before he is gone.

——————

Two hours later Harry is mesmerized by the sight of Ian cutting through the water that has flooded their dorm room and practically ripping the ventilation grate out of the ceiling while Harry struggles to free Christopher from where his foot had gotten tangled up in his sheets. Ian then gets everyone into the ventilation ducts until the water finally recedes. Once they are standing in a sodden line listening to Merlin tell everyone that they failed (with the exception of McClaggen who got them out, and Hart who noticed, and saved, their distressed teammate), Harry does his best not to get caught staring at how the wet fabric of Ian’s pants clings to _everything_. 

Ian completely ignores Harry and does not admire at the two dimples that he has on his lower back, right above his arse. 

——————

Ian looks down at his feet where his gorgeous Irish Wolfhound puppy sits at his feet. He can already tell the dog will be a strapping lad when he reaches maturity. Ian quickly looks ahead again lest anyone see the softening of his eyes as he stares at the dog.

Two people away, Hart is kneeling on the ground, practically vibrating as he plays with the smallest runt of a dog Ian has ever seen, though he quickly stands when Merlin approaches them and explains the dog’s purpose. Hart keeps sneaking glances down at his dog, his eyes shining. 

Ian names his dog Angus and immediately starts training him. 

Hart names his dog Mr. Pickle. _Mr._ Fucking. _Pickle_ . 

Ian resists the urge to punt the little rat across the grounds the first time it pisses on his shoes in the dormitory.

——————

Merlin hates him. Absolutely loathes him. He is personally invested in seeing him fail spectacularly so someone of his questionable background does not sully the halls of Kingsman with the Glasgow dirt on his shoes. That has to be the reason that every team exercise ends up with him and Hart either on the same team or, more horrifically, paired together as a duo. 

They, for all of Ian’s fucking sins (and according to the nuns in the orphanage he grew up in, he had quite a few of them), are currently in a team of two for the orienteering lesson. Each duo is dropped off, while drugged and black-bagged, somewhere within two days walking distance of the manor and is given a small knapsack with a few items in it. Tailing them is a Kingsman agent, who, as fairness to the candidates, is given only a rough idea of where the pair will be. The last team to end their way back to the manor is eliminated. Anyone found and shot, with a knock-out dart, by their agent is eliminated. 

He wakes up to find himself in a field, no discerning features to tell it from any other field, no sound of life close by. The bag is gone from his head, the promised knapsack is next to him. Someone had changed his clothes while he was out because he is now wearing sturdy boots, a jacket, and wool trousers. 

It is edging into night, still light enough to see for the most part, but only a little bit before full dark, thirty minutes at most. He looks around for Hart and doesn’t see him. Jesus fucking Christ, not two minutes into the fucking exercise and the moron has gotten himself lost. Ian looks skyward and prays for patience.

“Ah, Ian, you are up,” Hart’s voice startles him, coming at him from his back. “I was going to wake you but I was unsure of what they knocked us out with so I thought it best to let you come to naturally.” Hart plunks down on the ground next to him. “Well,” he looks at Ian expectantly, “let’s see what the gods have graced us with.” Ian opens up the knapsack. It contains some ration bars, a gun with one knockout dart in it, matches, and a small knife. 

Ian puts the items back in the knapsack and stands. He begins looking around, trying to get orientated. He is going to have to get them both out of here. 

Hart pipes up beside him, “I will have to wait until the stars come out to be sure, but I believe the manor is due east of us, and if we are where I think we are, it should be about an hours walk from a town. Possibly, once we get there, we can hot-wire a car and simply drive back to the manor.”

Ian gapes at him.

“Please, Ian, I did think you were smart enough to see past my ingenue act. I served in the RAMC before this. Where do you think my sponsor found me?” Hart folds his arms, his head tilted to the side, his ridiculous curls blowing slightly around from the breeze, a small smile on his lips.

“Why not share with the rest of the class then?”

“All of you took one look at me and made assumptions, assumptions I allowed you all to keep for the most part, without jeopardizing my chances, because it is easier to win when no one thinks you aren’t competition. I wasn’t lying though, I did peg you for being at least a touch smarter than the rest of those arses.”

“That’s a wee bit underhanded, wouldn’t you agree?”

“We are candidates for a job as a _spy_ for fuck’s sake, Ian. I think ‘a wee bit underhanded,’” Harry mimics Ian’s accent, “is in the job description. Now let's go, knowing our luck we have that pretentious fuck Gwaine on our arses. I don’t want to give him a chance to find us.”

Ian is just a little pissed to see that Hart is right when within an hour they top a hill to see the lights of a small town glowing out of the night. Once they get to the outskirts, Hart goes into the pub to ask where they are. He comes back a few moments later.

“I was right, the manor should be about an eight-hour drive. I saw a couple cars on the street outside the pub that looked like they could get us where we need to be. Easier to steal one when it’s dark out and the owner is pissed, rather than in broad daylight.” 

“Yes, agreed,” Ian grumbles. He doesn’t know if he is more put out that Hart actually knows what he’s about, or if it’s because Hart doesn’t _need_ him. 

Ian shoulders the pack and they head further into town together, just two blokes out for a walk. Suddenly, Hart grows tense beside him, but he does not alter his pace or the friendliness of his tone.  

He leans into Ian as if to speak confidentially, “Trust me.” 

Ian blinks once and nods. 

As they near the car Hart apparently has decided to steal, he changes course, pulling Ian into an alleyway, moving them into the back where it’s dark. Hart’s back hits the wall behind him and he pulls Ian against him, his arms looping around Ian’s back. Ian is stunned to feel a pair of warm lips pushed against his, and when he fails to respond immediately, Hart pulls back to whisper _I said fucking trust me_ and kisses Ian again. This time Ian responds, a bit more enthusiastically than even he expected. Hart moans against his mouth while his hands grapple with the pack. Hart’s curls brush against Ian’s forehead like a caress. The part of Ian’s brain not occupied with the tongue that is currently in his mouth simultaneously notices two things. One bring the crunch of gravel behind them, and two is a quick _click-snick_ sound. Hart gently pushes Ian away and rights himself while Ian stands there, wrong-footed and aroused. He looks down at the dart gun that was in the pack but is now in Hart’s hand. 

Hart takes a few steps away from him and goes over to look at a body laying at the entrance of the alley.

“I knew it, fucking Gwaine. He’s had it in for me since I bested him at sparring a few weeks ago.” Hart walks back to Ian, clapping him on the shoulder. “Good show, I can’t believe that arse thought two candidates would head off to an alley for a shag during a timed exercise. Give me a hand?” Hart asks as he begins pulling Gwaine’s body towards the back of the alley. “I don’t know how long those darts last, so let’s see about that car.”

Five minutes later they are leaving the town behind them. Ian resists the urge to press his fingers to his mouth.

“How the fuck did you know I wouldn’t punch you the minute you stuck your tongue in my mouth?”

“To be honest, I didn’t, but with someone tailing us, I figured the devil you know is better than the one you don’t.”

“You don’t know me at all,” Ian responds, turning his face toward the window. 

They are the first team back to the manor, receiving top marks for both speed and for taking out the agent tailing them. Merlin suggests to Gwaine that perhaps he take a remedial course on stealth. Gwaine’s jaw clenches as he levels a death glare at Hart. Hart gazes back blandly, rocking back and forth on his feet while Ian resists the urge to step in between them to block Gwaine’s view.

——————

His sponsor, Alexander, Code Name: Beaumains, finds him a week later while the candidates are outside, training their dogs. 

“Ian, I was looking over Merlin’s notes, you are ranking quite high in the trials. Well done.”

Ian stands and clicks his finger. Angus immediately moves to him and sits at his feet. He stands loosely at parade rest. “Thank you, Sir.”

“Down to four now, I see. What do you think of your rivals?” 

Ian casts his gaze across the yard, looking over Hart, Chesterton, and Smith, evaluating them in his head before he speaks.

“Chesterton and Smith are decent, but I am not worried about them. Hart is the main contender, he is the one to beat.”

“That bent little fucker with the tiny dog? The only thing you have to worry about is him catching you in the showers, right?” Alexander slaps him on the back and laughs. Ian stiffens immediately but forces a laugh out anyway. He watches Hart’s hair twist in the breeze.

“Yes, sir.” 

——————

Beaumains hands Ian the gun. “Shoot the dog.”

Ian looks from his sponsor to Angus to the gun. He raises it and puts the first living thing that has loved him in what he is sure is his entire life in his sights. Angus stares placidly at him. Ian’s finger moves to the trigger and begins to squeeze. He shoots, the blank going wide and embedding itself in the wall next to Angus. It is a testament to his training that the dog doesn’t even move. 

Ian tosses the gun at his sponsor’s feet. “You can go fuck yourself. To me, Angus,” he clicks his fingers as he turns towards the door.

Beaumains sneers at him. “Should have known better than to propose a _Schemie_. Get out.”

Ian turns back to Beaumains, marches right up to him and towers over him. “You want to whisper that in my ear, you little prick,” Ian bites out, his teeth bared. And Beaumains, for all that he is a trained Kingsman agent, backs up a step before he realizes he has done it.

“That’s what I thought.”

Ian leaves the room, running into Hart who is pale and carrying Mr. Pickle in his arms. Ian grits his teeth and offers his hand. “Congratulations, Galahad.”

Hart looks at the proffered hand and takes it. Ian can feel a slight tremor running through the hand in his. Ian's hand tightens and he resists the urge to hug Hart who is still looking a bit shell-shocked. 

“Thank you, Ian. Although, I think you might be the better man between us.” Harry looks guilty down at the dog in his arms.

“Well, that doesn’t matter now.” Ian pumps Harts hand once, clicks his fingers one more time and heads to the dorm to collect his things. As he is stuffing what little he owns in the duffle he brought with him six months ago Merlin comes into the room.

“Couldn’t shoot the dog, son?”

Ian immediately goes on the defensive because if Merlin says one word out of the wrong side of his mouth Ian cannot be held accountable for what he does to the man, the deep respect he has for Merlin notwithstanding.

“No, I could not, and what the fuck of it?”

“Nothing. I could barely shoot the little fucker either when it was my time. There she was, my little corgi, staring up at me, all but pissing herself in happiness that she got to be in the same room as her dad. Mind you, she was always in the same room with me, but she was dumb as a post. She didn’t even whimper when the blank hit her, just sat there like it was just the best game she ever played.”

Ian is completely confused. 

“I was wondering, lad, if you might want to come work for me on my side of Kingsman. I was looking over your file and you seem well-versed in the new technology that is coming up. I thought that perhaps you might like to invent some it yourself.”

Ian stares at the man, considering. “Yes, I think that would suit me just fine, Sir.”

His code name is Elyan. 

——————

**Six months later**

Harry Hart, Code Name: Galahad, saunters through the halls of the Kingsman manor riding high on the success of his first solo mission. For months he had been paired with various Kingsman agents, except for _fucking Gwaine_ thank god, basically sitting back and watching them have all the fun. Finally, last week, Arthur called him to the Table room and Merlin handed him a mission packet. An hour later Harry was on his way to foil an assassination and then assassinate said assassin. Everyone who is supposed to be alive is alive, and those that are supposed to be dead are buried in an unmarked grave. 

He debriefs with both Arthur and Merlin, and then heads out to find something to do to burn off all the excess adrenaline still thrumming through his system. He is looking for a fight or a fuck. He isn’t too awfully particular which he finds, even if he personally thinks a fuck would be more enjoyable for all parties involved. _Especially_ if there are more than two parties involved. 

Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

He heads to the train. As he approaches, he sees a tall man walking toward the train from the direction of Avalon, Merlin’s domain. One of the boffins he supposes. He nods in the man’s direction, pushes the button that will open the doors, and takes his seat inside. He busies himself writing notes in the small notepad he carries at all times about his impression of the mission, issues, etc., while it’s still fresh in his mind. 

“Hello, Hart,” the man says as he takes his seat across from Harry.

Harry looks up, started. “Ian?”

“I’m sure I am the last person you expected to see around here.” Ian gives him a closed lipped smile. He reaches up and pushes the button to start the train.

“True, although I can’t say I am sorry to see you. Are you with Merlin now? One of the intellectuals down in the caves, dreaming up all our fun toys?”

“That I am. Any requests? Not that I care, mind, but just out of curiosity.”

 _I certainly have a few, but I doubt you would be inclined to hear them_ , Harry thinks as he looks over Ian. The last he saw him, the man was stuck in one of those tartan siren suits that did not do anyone any favors. Now, his long legs are enclosed in dark wool, and with the white button up, and a pale gray cashmere jumper showing just a hint of the strong body underneath, Harry’s mouth goes a bit dry.

“I am just off of mission so I was planning on going to a pub to have a few drinks. Why don’t you join me and I will tell you some of my requests, and you can tell me how you went from packing your duffle to the hallowed walls of Avalon?”

“No, but thank you.” Ian shakes out the newspaper he had brought with him and begins to read.

“Ian, please. If you don’t come with me and keep me entertained, I am almost positive I will make a terrible decision tonight and either end up in bed with someone of dubious attractiveness or in jail after I pick a fight with a gang of roughs. You wouldn’t want that on your conscience would you?” And then Harry does it, he turns the full force of his doe-eyed, butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, pretty as you please stare on to Ian. The one that has never failed to get him exactly what he is asking for.

Ian scowls at him over the top of the paper. “That bullshit doesn’t work on me, Hart.”

“Be an utter twat then, Ian, but when I am in jail for assault, we will all know who’s fault it is.”

Ian just sighs and goes back to his paper. 

They sit in silence for exactly five minutes.

“Please?”

“No.”

Silence.

“I’ll put in a good word to Arthur for you.”

“I’m sure I can impress Arthur on my own, but thank you for your apparent _faith_ in my capabilities.”

Silence. The train is slowing down, approaching the shop. 

“One drink. Just one.”

Ian folds his paper with a snap. “Jesus fucking Christ! If I go get one drink, singular, not plural, _one_ drink, will you do me the favor of never speaking to me again?”

“Yes.”

“Fine.”

“Of course, I will have to talk to you about work related issues, you know. It would be silly for the rule to extend to working cond…”

“Fucking hell,” Ian moans, putting his head in his hands. 

Harry smiles.

—————

Five pints later and Ian is starting to realize that he has made a grave miscalculation. Normally, he would be able to drink an Irish priest under the table but he hasn’t had a drink since he was a candidate. It wasn’t allowed during the Galahad trials, and he had been too concerned with keeping his head down and his nose clean these past few months to even bother with it. 

Now, however, the pub which Harry had dragged him to is starting to blur at the edges and he finds himself actually _enjoying_ Hart’s company. 

“Tell me again how Beaumains almost shit himself when you loomed over him. That little bastard has a Napoleon complex if I have ever seen one. I bet his fucking prick is no longer than his pinky.”

“Christ, Hart, I do not want to think about his prick in any fashion.”

Hart throws back his head and laughs. Ian admires how the dimples in his cheek appear, and how his ridiculous hair seems even more ridiculous the more Ian drinks. He wonders if it still is as soft as feathers. 

“Another?” Hart asks, still smiling at him, looking effortlessly rumpled with his tie in his pocket next to his pocket square, his jacket unbuttoned, and his shirt open at the neck.

“Sure, why the fuck not.”

Two hours later, he and Hart are walking back to his place, arms around each other's shoulders as Ian teaches him the words to the bawdiest Scottish drinking songs he knows, in Gaelic. Hart helps him up the stairs and that is where Ian loses the rest of the night. 

He awakes the next morning in his bed, wearing nothing but his pants. He sits up and immediately regrets the decision as his brain bounces against his skull and his stomach makes the most terrible sounds. He looks to the other side of his bed. No Hart, so the night did not end in any fashion that would be impossible to salvage. As he slowly swings his legs around to the floor he notices a glass of water and two pain relievers on his bedside table along with a note.

_Ian,_

_I do hope you will forgive my forwardness regarding stripping you down to your pants and pouring you into your bed, but I figured that your back would not thank you if I let you sleep on the bathroom floor as you requested. I also fed and watered Angus, who seems much more agreeable in temper than his owner usually is, and let Merlin know you would be in later this afternoon. He applauds you for making friends with the agents and being more sociable than, and I quote, “a hedgehog that has sat on its own spines.”_ (Ian rolls his eyes, just what he needed in his first six months on the fucking job, someone calling him into work because of a fucking hangover. He will kill Hart.) _I took the liberty of sleeping on your sofa for a few hours until I could function again. May I suggest getting a newer one, as that monstrosity is only useful as kindling._

_I’ll look you up when I come back from Korea, which I am leaving for this afternoon, and we can continue the singing lessons._

_Yours,_

_Harry_

_P.S. I think you can start calling me Harry now instead of Hart. It’s the least you can do after I held your hair as you sicked up over your toilet last night. Well, when I say “held your hair,” I mean that in the most figurative sense, not literal. How does one become bald at our age? Do you shave it to make yourself look even more stern and arsehole like? I look forward to the answer to this when I return._

Yes. Ian was definitely going to kill him.

—————

**1987**

The nights at the pub post-mission become an almost regular event between Harry and himself, except when either Ian cannot get away or Harry, needing to blow off steam another way, just goes out on the pull without even coming back to the manor. Ian refuses to think about why his stomach curdles on those nights.

It surprises Ian to realize that Harry is not the poncy little fuck he had originally thought. Harry, despite his upbringing, felt superior to no one, judged no one, and was extremely self-deprecating at times. His dry sense of humor meshed well with Ian’s own, and they spent most of the time laughing at things no one else understood. Ian finds himself looking forward to seeing Harry both for evenings at the pub and midday lunches when they would debate politics, each of them choosing a position that may or may not be their actual political leaning just to be contrary to the other. Merlin, seeing how well they work together, has also taken to assigning Ian as Harry’s primary handler.

Three months into their friendship Ian has the unfortunate luck to run into Harry after a night on the pull. Harry is listing to the side a bit as he walks up the hall. His hair is mussed, his dark jacket is unbuttoned, his tie is undone, lying around his neck, and his shirt is open to his sternum. Harry hums to himself good-naturedly as he walks. Ian leans against the wall and clears his throat, watching Harry startle.

“Ian, don’t you ever go home? My mission ended,” he looks down at his watch, one hand bracing himself against the wall, “six hours ago. Certainly there couldn’t have been something so important that you had to stay here until one in the morning.” He walks up into Ian’s personal space and smiles at him. “Go get some sleep.” 

“Shouldn’t you be at home doing the same?”

“I should, but I have to debrief with Arthur first thing in the damn morning, so I am just going to spend the night in my rooms here.” 

Now that Harry is close, Ian can smell the liquor on him. Harry isn’t drunk, the man has an almost obscene tolerance for alcohol, but he’s definitely loose. Ian notices, his eyes narrowing, that Harry’s lips are redder than normal, and there is a small bruise on his neck just under his collar. His nostrils flare as he scents the air again, trying to pick up on any perfume that would have been all over Harry. Instead, all he smells is cologne, and not Harry’s normal scent. Perhaps Harry wasn’t as successful as he thought he was going to be.

“Trying on a new scent then, Harry? I will tell you, as a friend, that it does smell a bit cheap.”

“God, it’s awful isn’t it,” Harry responds, laughing. “No, this isn’t mine, the other ‘gentleman’ was wearing it. I could barely stand it, but he was pretty enough for me not to care overmuch.”

Objectively, Ian knew, even without being told, that Harry was attracted to men as well as women, although he had only ever actually seen him pull the latter outside of a honeypot. However, hearing Harry talk openly about it almost makes Ian drop the files he has. He looks around them, scanning the hall for anyone who might be in hearing distance.

“Jesus, Harry, lower your fucking voice,” Ian hisses. 

Harry takes a step back, putting distance between them, a blush coming into his cheeks. “And why in the hell should I do that? Does this bother you?”

 _Yes_ , Ian thinks, _it certainly the fuck does bother me_. But Ian doesn’t say that, rather he opens his mouth and “I don’t care where you stick your dick, but for fuck's sake, not everyone needs to know you’re bent. Arthur would kick you out on your arse in a heartbeat,” falls right out of it.

“Like fuck he would,” Harry responds, his voice cold. “He certainly didn’t care two months ago when the honeypot required me to take it up the arse. I am one of the best agents this place has right now and he knows it.”

“Doing what the mission requires one thing and being a bloody fucking poof is another. Have some fucking sense,” Ian says, stepping closer to Harry. 

Harry holds his ground. “Ah, I see, it’s like that, is it? Your opinions regarding my bed partners are duly noted, and I shall endeavor to keep you away from something that you obviously seem to find distasteful.” Harry leans in close to Ian, pushing him back to make room for him to pass. “Before you go making judgments about me, however, I’ll have you know that I haven’t forgotten that kiss in the alley during training, and I certainly haven’t forgotten the feeling of your hard prick pressing into my hip either. Remove the fucking plank, Ian.”

Now it’s Ian’s turn to blush, and he does so furiously. “Harry, I am only saying this…”

“I am not interested in anything you have to say at this point.” His eyes shine for a moment, and then he shakes himself, standing straight and adjusting his cuffs. “I’ll not keep you any longer,” he says, his voice distant. “Your assistance on my mission earlier is appreciated, and now, if you will excuse me I should retire.”

“Harry, wait a minute,” Ian reaches for his arm as he walks past, a movement Harry neatly side steps. 

“Good night, McClaggen.”

Ian watches him walk down the hall, back ramrod straight and shoulders stiff before he turns the corner and disappears. He turns and walks in the opposite direction, going back to the small workroom, no smaller than a broom closet if he is being honest, that he had commandeered as a sort of office for when he was working on tech projects. He drops the files on his desk, makes a couple notes on the design he was working on, and grabs his coat. 

On the tube ride home he tells himself that he will talk to Harry the next day. It will be fine.

—————

When Harry gets to his rooms it takes all his effort not to slam the door behind him. He throws his jacket on to the bed and paces back and forth, his hands clenching and unclenching. He goes to the bar, pours himself a drink, and knocks it back, then repeats the process twice more. 

The pleasant buzz of alcohol and excellent sex has completely dissipated. Harry is frozen with rage, just frozen with it. For Ian to react that way towards him, when Harry knows his preferences run along the same lines of Harry’s, at least where men were concerned, makes him want to walk right back out into that fucking hall and break the gangly fuck’s nose. Harry wasn’t lying when he said he remembered that kiss or the feeling of Ian’s cock pressed up against him. That moment, as quick as it was, is a prime feature in his fantasies. 

 _How dare he act like he is above it all, like he is better than me_ , Harry thinks, furious. 

Harry resolves in that moment to be true to his word. If Ian does find him, and his acceptance if himself, to be truly distasteful, he will make sure not a whisper of Harry reaches his ears. He will speak to Merlin tomorrow about being assigned another handler, saying nothing to reflect upon Ian poorly, of course, he was a gentleman, perhaps framing it as an interest in trying someone new. He will do his best to stay out of Ian’s way as well. Harry spent too long coming to terms with his desires, embracing them fully, and accepting the consequences for doing so, for someone to take that pride away like it was his to take.


	2. Chapter 2

It is not fine the next day. Harry is not answering the door to his room, or office, so Ian slips a note under each asking Harry to come find him when it is convenient. 

Ian spends most of his day in his office working on something he and Merlin had been talking over the past couple months. Handling agents currently consisted of compiling the research needed for the mission, or what is thought to be needed for the mission, and communicating when possible through small radios that the agent wore on their person, with a small speaker in their ear. It was better than nothing, but the agent could not talk back, and if there was any interference the agent was effectively dark.

Ian had come up with the idea for a small earpiece that would allow the agent and handler to communicate in real time during one mission when Harry lost the radio and, unbeknownst to Harry, he almost ended up dead because he never heard the crucial information that the mark was not alone in the house as was previously thought. However, Ian is running into three major problems with designing it. One is making the ear piece small enough that it would fit snugly against the agent's ear and not look like he secured a walkie-talkie to the side of his head, two is making it work no matter what the range was between handler and agent, and three was the technology that was currently available to them. Mobile phones were becoming more common but they were frankly ridiculous in both their limited range and size. Ian was literally building this from the ground up, a challenge he relished.  

It’s half five before he realizes Harry had never come to find him. Sighing, he stands and stretches his back, which has gone stiff from him spending the day bent over his desk. He decides he needs a cup of tea, and if the journey to fetch it takes him back round to Harry’s rooms and office, so be it.

Once again, there is no answer to his knocking on either door. When he gets to the kitchen he finds Kay just turning off the kettle. He doesn’t know Kay that well, the agent is part of the old guard, quickly heading into his late forties, and is known around the manor as being very concerned with the proper protocol between agents and the rest of the Kingsman team. 

Ian is desperate enough to find Harry, however, that he asks Kay if he knows where Galahad had run off to.

Kay stops stirring an alarming amount of milk into his tea and gives Ian a cool look. “I think he went out of some of your lot,” he says, showing disapproval at the idea of any agent spending time with what he apparently thinks of as the _help_ , “didn’t you see him?”

Ian stiffens at that. He just mutters, “No, Sir, I guess I didn’t,” and heads back to his office. Ian tries to make some more progress on his project but when he hears a group walking down the hall past his tiny little room, laughing and hears Harry among them, he waits for them to pass before he quietly slips out, heading for home. 

He doesn’t seek out Harry again and he spends the majority of his time working on the earpiece as an excuse to stay hidden. He finally gets the courage to emerge five days later and heads to the handler room. As he walks in, Ragnell, another handler, turns to him and asks, “Is Galahad always this difficult? How do you handle him?” 

“Yes, he is, and it’s always an adventure,” Ian says, a sinking feeling in his stomach. “If you will excuse me.”

Ian finds Merlin in his office. “Is there a reason I was not told Galahad needed a handler, Sir?”

 “He requested that you no longer handle him on missions, citing personal differences.”

Ian feels like someone had just punched him in the stomach. “Personal differences,” he echoes, even though he damn well knows what those differences supposedly are. 

“He wouldn’t say any more about it, only that you and he should no longer work together.” Merlin looks at him expectantly, as if Ian will explain the mess. 

“I see, Sir, if there is nothing else, I’ll let you get back to your work.”

As Ian turns towards the door, Merlin speaks again. “Listen, Elyan, I don’t know what bug has crawled up either of your arses, but you both _will_ fix this when he gets back. You two are one of the best handler/agent teams I have right now and I won’t see that destroyed because of some silly squabble. Kingsman, and its interests, are paramount about anything else, understood?”

“Yes, Merlin. I’ll talk to him when he gets back.”

“Good, dismissed.”

Ian is fucked if he knows how to fix this if Harry won’t even see him.

—————

Two days after Harry returns to the manor, someone knocks at his door. He is up to his elbows in his report and sick with it so he calls out “Enter,” without thinking. He doesn’t look up until he hears a polite throat clearing and the sound of his door being shut. 

Ian stands there hugging his clipboard tightly to his chest, but his eyes meet Harry’s dead on. Harry had thought that after he had ignored the notes slipped under his door, despite the fact that he had walked to Ian’s little cubby he called an office twice before turning on his heel, that it was well and done between them. It seems he was wrong. Sighing inwardly, he stands.

“Elyan, what can I do for you? Would you like some tea?” Harry cannot not be a gentleman even though he has no desire to deal with this right now.

“Well, that depends on if you plan on calling me Elyan the entire time I am here, or if you will actually give me time to explain my behavior the last time we spoke.”

Despite Ian not saying he would actually like some tea, Harry busies himself with fixing it so he has an excuse for turning his back. 

“I think everything was explained clearly that night, now if you have some work related…”

“Please, Harry, ten minutes is all I am asking.”

Harry slumps, already knowing he was defeated the minute Ian stepped through the door. 

“Fine, ten minutes,” he says, turning an offering Ian his tea. “Sit. Talk.”

Ian pulls a small flask out of his pocket, pours a bit into his cup before raising it to Harry. Harry accepts, topping his off as well. 

“I don’t think I ever told you that I was raised in a Catholic orphanage right outside of Glasgow.” Harry shakes his head. “No? I don’t like to discuss it really, or anything about my childhood. It was a very Catholic orphanage, run by possibly the most militant nuns I have ever seen. I always thought that that was why I could handle the candidate trials so easily, because none of what Merlin could throw at me even came close to some of the things I endured from those frigid cunts.” 

Ian meets Harry’s eyes and smiles briefly. Harry does not return it. Ian sighs.

“I first realized I was interested in men at thirteen. I fell madly in, what I supposed to be love,” Ian rolls his eyes, “with a lad I knew, Fergus. He was two years older than me and I thought rainbows shot out of his fucking arse. Unfortunately, he thought the same. One night he pushed me up against a wall, kissed me, and shoved my hand down his trousers. Being the idiot I was back then, I, of course, thought that meant he liked me back. When I approached him the next day, being a bit more touchy than he liked, he, with the help of his friends, beat me so badly the nuns had to take me for medical attention. I refused to tell anyone what had happened, but Fergus, scared of being found out to be a ‘faggot’ himself, went to Mother Superior and told her about how I had attacked him coming back from the toilets the night before, and he only hit me because he was so frightened I was going to do it again.” Ian is now staring somewhere beyond Harry’s right shoulder, his gaze inward.

“The next morning I was shown to Mother Superior’s office before breakfast. That morning, and every morning for a month thereafter, I was refused breakfast, given only bread and water for lunch and dinner, and kept in solitary confinement with my daily lessons brought to me. Each morning I received ten lashes from Mother Superior’s rod across my arse, and at night, across my thighs. _‘We have to beat the devil of you, Ian’_ she would say.” 

Harry’s face pales and his hand makes an abortive gesture towards Ian. 

“I was required to spend two hours a day on my knees, on the stone floor of my room, praying for forgiveness for my wicked thoughts, and asking God to show me the true way, the way to be a ‘real man’ and not some filthy sodomite. 

“Of course, through Fergus, the little shit stain, all the other boys knew what had happened so even after I was allowed out and back into the main of the house no one would speak to me for fear of being guilty by association. I wasn’t even allowed to sleep in the quarters with the rest of the boys, lest I molest them as well and tempt them to follow my example. For the next two years I slept in my own room, which was more like a cell, and except for new boys who didn’t know my ‘history,’ I had very few peers to speak to. The upside was that since I had nothing to do but study, I was able to enter university at the age of seventeen and leave that godforsaken shit hole behind me. 

“At uni, it was better as no one knew me, but that sense of shame for my attraction to men was so ingrained in me that I just pushed it aside, ignored it. I tried it on with women of course, which was disastrous. Each time I had to get so piss drunk I couldn’t even get it up.” Ian chuckles quietly to himself. “I won’t say I was celibate, I was eighteen which meant my cock got hard when the wind blew. However, the few times I actually got brave enough to seek a man out, it was quick suck jobs in the loo of a club. After each time I went home and had nightmares for weeks about being back on that fucking stone floor, my knees aching and my arse bleeding from the rod. I finally stopped seeking anyone out, deciding it wasn’t worth the hassle and instead focusing on finishing my dual degree. 

“You kissing me was the first contact I had with a man in over two years. I didn’t know whether I wanted to punch you for presuming that about me, for knowing what kind of man I was when I tried so hard to hide it, or finish what you started right over Gwaine’s unconscious body.” Ian’s cheeks and neck are bright red with embarrassment. 

“Ian,” he starts, but Ian stops him.

“No, let me finish. The other night I was not railing at you because you disgusted me, I was railing at the fact that that I was jealous.”

Harry’s heart stutters in his chest.

“I was jealous that you were able to just be who you are with no shame.” 

 _Ah_ , Harry thinks with disappointment. 

“You just fucking stood there and openly stated you had just pulled a man without a care of who might hear you. You were able to go on a honeypot with a male mark, knowing that all the other agents and handlers knew what the mission required, knowing that they were watching, and you _simply did not give one fuck about what they thought_. I was so angry that you could do that. All the shame I feel for my own attractions I took out on you and for that I am deeply sorry. I was no better than those bitches that raised me.” Ian’s head hangs. “I would like to be able to work with you again Harry, and maybe be friends again,” he says to his knees.

“For the love of God, Ian, stand up,” Harry says rising to his feet and pulling Ian up with him. His arms go around him instantly and Ian stiffens unconsciously before returning the gesture. 

“I’ll speak to Merlin today, and tonight we are going to the pub to get pissed.”

Ian laughs against his neck. “Perfect.”

—————

Ian is relieved to see that each mission now ends with them at the pub again, or on nights (or mornings) that Harry is well and truly knackered, squirreled away in some far-flung room in the manor, sitting together in the low light, sipping tea or whiskey and just being together. Those are the times Ian enjoys the most, the early mornings between dark and day, where he and Harry are silent. 

If Harry is pulling, Ian isn’t seeing it.

One night, after they had hit the pubs, they end up at Ian’s house. Harry staggers around looking at everything.

“Jesus, Ian, I was too drunk to realize this last time I was here, but it looks as though a poor uni student lives here. I know you can afford better.” 

Ian stands across the room, leaning back against his kitchen counter with his arms folded across his chest. He supposes Harry has a point. The flat is small, but it’s only just him, so it has never bothered him much before. In the bedroom is a bed and wardrobe that he actually has had since his uni days, and in the living room is a lumpy couch that the previous owner's cat, or perhaps dragon by the looks of it, had used as a scratching post. A dusty TV sits in the corner but is never used since Ian took it apart one night when he was drinking alone. The only decoration on the walls is a poster of Nikola Tesla that his roommate before Kingsman had gotten him when he moved out. The kitchen holds exactly enough dishes and pots to feed and cook for one person.  He speaks, playing up his brogue, “Oh aye, I can, but I am Scottish, and we are frugal by nature. Besides,” he says, slipping back into his normal speech pattern, “I don’t see the point in decorating the space when I only see the inside of it once a week if I am lucky. I suppose you have some fancy house somewhere that smells like brandy and cigars.”

Harry laughs and unsteadily bends down to pet Mr. Pickle and Angus where they are curled up together on Angus’ dog bed, both of them happy to be anywhere besides the Kingsman kennels where they stay while he and Harry work. 

“Actually it smells like my Auntie Marie. I inherited it when she passed last year. Good bones, but it still smells like camphor and lavender and it has an appalling collection of fluffy pillows I have ever seen. Even Mr. Pickle can’t find it in himself to rut against one when he is feeling particularly randy. I suppose one of these days I’ll redecorate, but like you said,” Harry waves his hand about, “what’s the fucking point if you’re never there?” He looks up at Ian.  “Are we out of alcohol already? What kind of handler are you, letting your agent down like that?”

Ian pulls a bottle of cheap, but serviceable, whiskey out of the cupboard. 

“You were saying?” 

Harry beams at him, that smile that crinkles his eyes and brings out his dimples and Ian thinks he may just choke on the warm feeling building in his chest. Later that night, when Harry has his head in his lap and has passed out from Ian combing his fingers through his hair, he finds himself watching the curls fluff up under his fingers. He thinks about Harry kissing him in that alley and those curls whispering against his skin. He wonders if Harry would do it again if he asked him to. He wonders if he would do more.

—————

Harry wakes up with a dead rat in his mouth (figuratively thankfully, but in Ian’s perfectly shit flat, he wouldn’t be surprised) and his head still on Ian’s lap. Ian ended up passing out still sitting up but in sleep his head has tipped to one side, his head at an angle that makes Harry wince in sympathy.

“Ian,” he shakes the other man’s shoulder. “Ian.”

“Fuck off,” Ian moans, his hand slapping Harry away.

“Ian, wake up. We need food, the greasier the better. Get the fuck up so we can go get some.”

Ian raised his head, his eyes popping open when the muscles in his neck spasm. Harry reaches behind Ian, quickly rubbing the crick out.

“Fucking hell. What the fuck happened?”

“Really, Ian, don’t be daft. We drank until we passed out. What do we always do? Now up you get. Go take a hot shower, and change into something that doesn’t smell like a back alley. Then we will go to Auntie Marie’s so I can shower, and I will cook you some proper hangover food.”

Ian moves slowly, looking at Harry suspiciously. “ _You_ cook?”

“Of course I cook. Our cook was a sinfully good-looking lad of thirty years to my sixteen. I asked for cooking lessons as an excuse to be in the kitchen constantly so I could stare at his arse.” Harry looks wistful. “Jesus, that man was lovely, and the things he could with do with his hands. Tenderizing meat was an art form,” Harry finishes with a wink.

“You fucked your cook? A man twice your age, and you fucked him?”

“No, I did not fuck the cook. Jonas was straight as a board and couldn’t stand me. Alice, the girl that assisted him in the kitchen after school taught me how to cook. _And_ she also taught me how to suck a cock, but that really isn’t the point to the story.” Harry looks nonplussed while Ian shakes his head and scrubs his hands over his face. “The point is I can make a proper fry up so good that you will cry, but if you don’t get in and out of the shower by the time I have found my shoes, you can stay here and eat some fucking moldy porridge for all I care.”

“I cannot believe you had one of the ‘help’ teach you how to fellate someone.”

Harry sniffs, raising his nose slightly. “When you meet a master of the craft, Ian, you ask to be their apprentice. Alice could literally suck your brains out through your prick. I will forever hold her in the highest esteem.”

Ian emerges from his bathroom a few minutes later, walking to his battered dresser to find jeans and a t-shirt.

“You have literally three minutes before I walk out this door Ian, three.”

“Keep your hair on, Harry,” Ian replies as he walks into the living room, jeans barely zipped and t-shirt over his shoulder. Harry has seen him naked during the candidacy and growing up in an all boys home completely ruined any sense of modesty Ian may have had. “Christ, it’s my fucking day off. It’s the only day I don’t have to rush around after little fucks like you, wiping your arses and making sure you don’t get yourselves killed. Let a man get dressed.”

Ian turns towards Harry and realizes that Harry’s eyes seem to have zeroed in on him somewhere right around the his waist. It’s only a split second before Harry realizes that Ian is looking at him, but it is enough to Ian to notice the slight redness creeping up his neck Not wanting to embarrass Harry, who can be like a wet cat when he feels self-conscious, all hisses, back arching, and claws, he quickly turns back as if he saw nothing and pulls his shirt on, toeing into his shoes as he does. 

“Fine, I am ready. Let’s go experience this supposedly religious experience of a fry up I’ve been offered.”

Harry clears his throat, agrees, swinging his jacket over one shoulder, and opens the door to exit. If Ian hangs back just a touch to admire the broad, straight lines of Harry’s shoulders beneath his shirt or how those bespoke trousers accentuate the curve of his bum, surely there is nothing wrong with a little aesthetic appreciation between friends, right?

—————

**1988**

Harry is out on a mission, laying belly down on a top floor of an abandoned building with a sniper rifle in front of him when he really begins to consider the now ever-present, underlying thrum of sexual tension between him and Ian. At first, Harry thought it was one-sided (his) but somewhere along the way it came mutual. Now it has woven itself right into their friendship. They have always been able to catch the other one looking just a hair too long to be considered strictly friendly, but lately, Harry can almost taste something burning between the two of them like hot ozone in his mouth, terribly exciting and frightening all at once. 

What surprises him is that neither him or Ian seem inclined to do anything about it. Actually, he is surprised at himself the most. He rarely, if ever, denies himself the pleasure of a lover when he finds someone he likes, and rarely, if ever, does the object of his desire deny _his_ affections when he turns them on him or her. With Ian, however, it’s different. Not because they are friends, and actual friends are something Harry has very few of. It’s just that with Ian, Harry knows he would want more than one night of what he believes would be mind-blowing sex. He would want much more. However, that does not mean he cannot indulge in the fantasy of what Ian would look like above him when Harry is down on his…

Shit.

His mark just entered the office on the street opposite. Harry carefully sights, makes a calculation for wind, breathes once, twice, shoots, and then quickly breaks down his rifle, stowing it in the false bottom of his briefcase. Once back out on the street, case swinging from his hand he pulls out his mobile phone _(Christ, the thing is like talking into a shoe)_ and calls to check in. Ian picks up on the first ring.

“Galahad?”

“Darling, I have just got out of the most atrocious meeting, but I finally brought the other side around to my way of thinking. Be a love and call ahead to the plane to let them know I am on my way to them.”

“You can’t call them yourself? I do have other things to do rather than playing secretary to you.”

“You bought new knickers you say?” Harry nods and smiles innocently at a woman who looks scandalized at the mention of someone’s knickers. “Well, aren’t I just lucky to be making it home for supper tonight then? See you in a few hours, darling.”

“Why don’t you see your way into putting your…”

Harry hangs up, laughing softly to himself. He will stop on the way in to buy Ian some of his favorite scotch and help him drink it after he gets off shift. Who knows what could happen. 

—————

**1989**

Harry is sneaking through a high-rise in Beijing, attempting to steal the plans for a new dirty bomb from the man who invented it. 

“All these stairs, I feel like I am playing Snakes and Ladders. Could I have not just taken the elevator like a civilized person?”

“Yes, Galahad, you could have taken the elevator right up to Mr. Zhou’s personal floor and asked him for the plans. I am sure he would have given them to you and then invited you to tea. Jesus. Now, according to the floor plan, you should be able to go up the stairs and through the last door on your left to get to the safe.” Ian said clearly into the earpiece he was wearing. 

“I have to say Elyan, this little thing is a work of art. I don’t think I have ever been so impressed with something in my entire life. The wire does mess with my hair a bit but it is a sacrifice I am willing to make.” 

“I rest easy knowing it has your stamp of approval. As for your hair, no one gives a toss.”

“Someone should fetch you some tea, you’re awful tetchy. Open the comms up to the room for a moment, will you dear?”

“Let I remind you everyone can hear you right now.” Harry can practically hear Ian’s teeth grinding. “Keep it professional.”

“Merlin,” Harry calls out over the speakers, “send someone for tea. Elyan is being a grump.” He smiles when he hears Merlin laughing and Ian muttering _Jesus fucking Christ_. 

“I found the safe, give me a few minutes to crack it. Why don’t you be a love and find me a way out while I am doing the heavy lifting, hmm?”

“Why don’t you go… nevermind.” Ian says, remembering where he is.

Harry pops the safe open and grabs the plans he was sent here to fetch. Following Ian’s directions out, he is one floor away when he feels the first bullet impact his suit.

“Is that gunfire I heard, Galahad?”

“Yes, seems someone found out the plans were missing. I should have shut the safe. Sloppy.”

“Are you serious? Please tell me you aren’t.”

“I’m not.”

“You are a shite liar.”

“I’ll have you know…” Harry pitches forward when more bullets impact him from behind, for a moment it is hard to breathe. One zings past his ankle, grazing it. “Fuck.”

“Galahad, report.” Ian’s voice is tight, his brogue thickening. “Are you hit?”

“I think there are five behind me, but I am one floor away from the exit. I’m fine, just a nick.”

“Your extraction is waiting two blocks away. Bors will be waiting in a black jeep. When you hit the alley go right to the exit and left onto the street. You’ll see him. The plane has been notified and is ready to take off as soon as you both are on it. But you have to get on it, Galahad, so get your arse in gear.”

“Understood.” Harry turns and fires behind him, taking out two of the men at his back. He rushes into the stairwell, down the floor, out into the alley and comes face to face with six more men, all carrying guns. 

“Gentlemen, I seem to have gotten lost. Could someone point me to the nearest pub?” All the men level their guns at him.

Harry smiles. The men rush him.

As soon as one gets close, Harry grabs his arm, turning in a circle and the man’s own momentum to swing him around straight into the man directly behind the first, knocking them both to ground. Another bullet hits him in the back, layering another bruise over the top of the others. He turns quickly and shoots the third with his gun while continuing to deflect bullets with his arms. That leaves three men left to contend with. Harry has this under control, five more minutes and he can saunter out into the street and make his way back to Bors. He holds his gun in his right hand while with his left he pulls one of the stilettos from his belt buckle and throws it, hitting one of the men directly in the eye. He drops instantly. 

“Galahad, what is going on?”

“Busy, Elyan!”

The last two are holding slightly back from him, assessing him warily after seeing what happened to their compatriots. 

“Come on boys, certainly you can handle one man.” 

“Don’t goad them, Galahad!”

“Hush, Elyan. Daddy is working.” 

Harry gets hit from behind. _The other three from the stairwell. Sloppy again, Harry_ , he thinks as the world goes dark.

He wakes an unknown length of time later, seated on a wooden chair, his arms tied behind him, his gun gone. He tests his restraints, they do not budge. His earpiece is gone as well. Ian is going to _murder_ him. Two guards stand outside the door, he can hear them talking quietly to themselves. 

A voice comes from behind him. “I do not like strange people in my home. I want to know who sent you to steal those plans.” Male, Chinese, but speaks with barely an accent. He begins assessing his options. Blade in shoe, lighter in his pocket, darts in his watch, and one more blade in his belt. All of which he needs his fucking hands to use. 

Shit.

Harry turns his head to try to see who is behind him. A gun barrel presses into the base of his skull. “Who sent you?” The safety clicks off. 

“I find it easier to converse with someone after I have been properly introduced.”

“I need no introduction, sir. Everyone knows who I am, and most of them have the sense to stay far away from me.”

“I have it on good authority that I have very little sense. Mr. Zhou, I presume?”

The hammer pulls back on the gun and a hand comes down on his shoulder. Harry can feel the body heat of Zhou behind him. 

“Once more and then I shoot. Who sent you for the plans?”

“You will shoot whether I tell you or not. I don’t see how I stand to gain anything from this transaction.”

The hand on his shoulder tightens. 

“Your choice.” 

In that moment Harry knows he is about to die. Zhou will pull the trigger causing the bullet to embed itself into his brain. Not even the mighty Galahad can withstand a point-blank shot to the head. He has nothing to lose. He pushes off with his feet sending him and the chair straight back in Zhuo. The shot misses, skimming white hot down the back of his neck and through his collar, crumpling on itself when it hits the fabric of his suit, and laying against his skin, burning.

Zhou, taken off guard, falls backward as well, his head making a loud and final crack against the floor. Harry lands, still in the chair, half on top of him. He shimmies up and back, inching up until he can pull his hands from behind the chair back. Then he pulls his arms under his legs, getting them in front of him so he can raise his hands above his head and bring them down quickly to break the ties. Hearing the scuffle inside, the guards are unlocking the door to check on their master. Harry quickly palms his blade from his belt. 

Harry looks back at Zhou. His eyes are open and there is a pool of blood coming from the back of his skull and spreading. The door kicks open as the guards come in, looking at Harry who is standing up, and Zhou who is not, in confusion. The guards draw their guns. 

“Boys, I assure you that what you are witnessing is nothing but an accident. Your employer let me out my bonds and then slipped. Who could predict such a thing?”

One guard motions to the floor with his gun. “Kneel.”

Harry looks down at the floor and back to the men. “On this floor in these trousers? I think not.”

Harry is just getting ready to toss the blade at one and hope the other one is dumb enough to use a chest shot instead of a head shot when he hears two muffled gunshots. The guards drop, revealing a grinning Bors standing behind them. 

“Alright there, Galahad?”

Harry slumps against the wall. “Alright, Bors. Who else is with you?”

Bors continues to smile. “Just me I am afraid, old chap. Just me and a few of my favorite toys.” His hands fan out five lighters. “Shall we get going? The plane waiting for us a few miles away, I told them to start her up as soon as they see my signal.”

“Which will be this building being reduced to rubble. Is that really necessary?”

“It is now since the plane will be looking for it, and here I thought you were one of the smarter ones. Now hurry up, the timers on these little fuckers are short.”

Harry pushes off the wall, taking the gun Bors offers and limps after him. 

He has to admit, later as the plane flies over the still burning wreckage, that as signals go this one is most definitive. 

Medical is waiting for him when he gets off the train and they whisk him off to the bowels of the manor despite his protestations that he’s fine.

Dindrane fixes him with a glare. “You have a wound from a bullet, shot at close range mind you, on your neck. Your ankle has the same, just less severe. You took a blow to the head and your torso has bruising from multiple impacts that need to be checked for any internal damage. So, Galahad, you _will_ go to medical, you _will_ be examined, and when we are done, you _will_ spend the night for observation.”

Harry simply remains silent and allows them to herd him down the hall.

Once he has been poked, prodded, x-rayed, and stuck, he is resting on his bed, settled in for the night. _Utter poppycock_ , he thinks but is too smart to voice. Arthur has already been down to debrief him with Merlin who takes notes to be input in later. One hand is holding a book that one of the nurses fetched, along with his own pajamas and a robe, thank you very much, for him from his quarters while the other is curled loosely around a cup of tea when his door flies open allowing Ian to stride in white-lipped and furious.

“What in the utter fuck was that stupid shite back there then, Harry? You ignore a direct order from your handler? You tell me to _‘Calm down, Daddy is working’_ over monitored comms?”

“I don’t believe that handlers have the authority to order agents,” Harry sniffs, taking a measured sip of his tea.

“We sure as hell do, you tit, especially when we are obviously smarter than you entire fucking lot put together. Go read the chain of command again. Better yet, let me shove it straight up your stupid arse so you can learn it by osmosis!” Ian is standing at the end of his bed, his arms braced on the metal footboard where his chart hangs. Ian picks up the chart, flipping through it so furiously the pages almost tear. “A gunshot wound to the neck that would have killed you if it didn’t go wild. Another would to the ankle and impact injuries that caused two bruised ribs. Jesus, Harry! You go and get yourself kidnapped because you were so cocksure and impressed with yourself you decided you could take on what, seven, eight men?”

“Seven actually, plus three in the stairwell, and to be fair everyone else is always impressed with my _cock_ surety,” Harry replies, winking at Ian. Any other time, that would have made Ian chuckle and roll his eyes in frustration, or affection, as Harry likes to think of it. 

Ian slams the chart against the footboard, denting the metal. “This is not fucking amusing, Harry. Do I look amused? Am I laughing?”

“No, but that’s because you have the sense of humor of a sober Pope…”

Ian comes and looms over him while he is on the bed and that just _won’t fucking do_. Harry stands up forcing Ian to take a step back. 

“Now, I can understand you are upset Ian, but you are certainly not going to berate me for doing my job. I made a call as an agent, and yes, it went a bit sidewise.” Harry watches Ian’s mouth fall open. “Yes, I said ‘a bit’ and I am not going to apologize to you for doing my job in the manner I see fit.” Harry keeps advancing on him, poking his finger into Ian’s chest until Ian is pressed against the wall. “I understand that we are friends, but that does not give you the right to barge in here and nag me like a fishwife. If you have a problem with me as a handler to an agent, you can take it up with me as agent. I certainly don’t see what has got your knickers in a fucking twist.”

Ian’s hands come up to Harry’s shoulders and grip him tight enough to leave bruises. He thinks Ian is so angry that he is actually going to shake him so hard his brain rattles. 

“You don’t see…” Ian twists, pushing Harry against the wall and kisses him, his tongue slipping in when Harry gasps in surprise, swiping against Harry’s in the lewdest mimicry of fucking that Harry has ever felt.  Ian’s leg pushes in between Harry’s legs and he pulls their hips together. In seconds, Harry is harder than he can ever remember being, and he can feel Ian rock solid and hot against his hip. Harry moans before he can stop it. Ian responds in the same manner. Their hips rock together once. Twice.

The kiss lasts thirty seconds at most before Ian pulls away quickly, blinking at Harry like he is trying to figure out exactly how he ended up in such a position. Harry thinks he looks better than he has ever seen him look, lips kiss swollen and his face flushed, the line of his black trousers completely ruined by a very impressive erection. Apparently, Ian is the one who should be cocksure. 

Ian rocks back once and then punches Harry right in the jaw. He pulls it just a little, but not enough that it won’t leave an impressive bruise by morning. Ian turns on his heel and walks out the door. Harry sinks to the floor, one hand pressed against his sore jaw and the fingers of the other pressed against his lips. 

The door flies open again.

“Stay out of my sight for the next few days, Harry. I cannot even stand to look at you right now. Fuck.” Right back out the door he goes. 

Harry sits there on the floor, with a cock that does not realize that it has no reason to be foolishly tenting his pajamas, looking at the door, hoping it will open once more.

—————

Ian walks home in a rage, stomping up the stairs to his flat. How Harry could even conceivably think that he would have no issue with sitting back and _losing_ him to the hands of some thug is simply beyond the pale. 

When he reaches his door and opens it the first thing he sees is the expensive, and gorgeous if you’re going to put a gun to his head, couch he and Harry had picked out six months ago. The sight of it just further enrages him so rather than walking in to get the bottle of whiskey he had been thinking about the entire way home, he simply turns on his heel and heads back out into the night. 

An hour later he finds himself in a club watching gorgeous men grind against one another while he knocks back drink after drink. The pounding baseline matches the pounding in his head allowing him to stop thinking about how he could have lost his best friend, someone he actually loves, and then wonder how badly he may have fucked things up by kissing him. God, the way Harry sounded when he moaned into the kiss, Ian feels arousal spike up his spine like an electrical charge.

He raises his hand for another.

“You know what they say about drinking alone…”

Ian rolled his eyes. Fucking hell, he was not in the goddamn mood.

“No, I don’t, nor do I particularly care.” He keeps steadily sipping his drink, his eyes never once moving to the side to look at the other man.

“To be honest, I don’t either. I just wanted an excuse to talk to you.”

“Well, you did. Congratulations. Now you can fuck off.”

“Come on now, mate. I’m just trying to be friendly.”

Ian whirls on him, ready to physically remove the man from his presence, right until he lays eye on him. Curly brown hair and a strong jaw, shoulders wide enough to accentuate the smaller waist. Ian tilts his head considering. Close enough.

The other man smiles and extends his hand. “I’m…”

“Not really interested in your name,” Ian responds, reaching out to cup the man’s jaw, run his thumb against his lips. “Your mouth, however, that I find particularly interesting.”

“Yeah?” He breathes and then flicks his tongue over the pad of Ian’s thumb. “Wanna go somewhere?”

“Yes, mine’s not far.” Ian knocks back his drink, grabs his jacket, and walks away, fully confident that the other one is following him. 

He is.

Once out on the pavement, his partner for the night tries to make small talk, to which Ian only grunts periodically in response to. However, once he shuts his flat door behind them, Ian becomes very responsive. He pushes the other man against the door and proceeds to tongue fuck the life out of him. Instantly the man is moaning like a whore and rubbing his crotch against the thigh Ian has shoved between his legs. Ian’s hands travel under his shirt, admiring the soft skin stretched over a well-muscled abdomen, rising higher and higher until they find his nipples. Ian twists them just enough to draw a whimper out of him. Ian leers and pulls back. Angus, who had come over to the pair when the door opened soon realizes that no one is paying attention to him, huffs once, and then returns to his dog bed.

“Take off your clothes,” Ian says, already shedding his own, “and sit on the couch.”

The man instantly complies, his naked arse squeaking against the leather. Ian walks into the loo, grabs two condoms, comes back in, and lays them on the couch as he drops gracefully to his knees between the man’s spread legs.

“You don’t need those, mate, prefer sucking it bare myself.”

Ian glares at him. “Perhaps you should watch the fucking news once in a while before stupid shit like that kills you. We are using these or you can get your clothes and go suck your own cock.”

The man shrugs. “Your place, not mine.”

Ian swiftly rolls the condom down the cock in front of him. Not the biggest he’s had, nor the smallest. It’s just a cock, but it’s been so long since he has been in close proximity to anyone’s but his own that his mouth waters. Head still slightly swimming from the alcohol, he braces his hands on the insides of the man’s thighs, enjoying the coarse texture of hair underneath his palms, and drops his head down, inhaling the masculine scent.

It’s been a few years since he has done this, but it seems it’s muscle memory. Ian loses himself in the motion of bobbing his head, swirling his tongue and enjoying the heavy weight of a cock in his mouth. Nails scratch lightly against his scalp, not demanding, not pushing, but just scratching. Ian moans in appreciation, his sounds mixing with those above him. He moves one hand to cradle the man’s bollocks, massaging them in counterpoint to his head, pulling lightly. The thighs on either side of his head being to shake and Ian moves with more purpose, feeling the cock in his mouth stiffen further. 

“Yes, god, just like that, just like - _fuck_ \- that,” he hears above him and the man’s hips start thrusting into his mouth with quick and shallow movements. “God, I’m going…” One more thrust deep into Ian’s mouth and the man is pulsing within the condom while Ian sucks him through it. He pulls off, ties off the condom and lays it to the side to deal with later. The man then pulls Ian up and over him as he lies down on the couch. Ian kisses him lazily, petting down his side with one hand while Ian fists his cock with the other. He raises up, kneeling on the couch between the man’s legs, gazing at the spent cock, still a little plump in its soft thicket of dark hair. 

“Yeah, do it, come all over me. I fucking want you to cover me in it,” the man says, staring hungrily at Ian.

Ian keeps pulling himself, closing his eyes for a moment, allowing himself one small second to imagine that being said to him in Harry’s posh voice. And in that one second he begins to come, small and quiet grunts escaping him as he hitches forward with the force of it, bracing one hand on the couch back so he doesn’t fall over. He covers his partner’s cock and pubic hair in his spunk. When he has finished, he reaches down and rubs it into the man’s skin. 

“Jesus, yes, you _dirty_ fucker. Come here and give us a kiss.” 

Ian drops back down and kisses him for a little while until the kisses grow slow and messy. The man passes out under him and Ian knows he should get a cloth, clean them both up, and then politely but firmly ask the man whose name he still does not know to get the fuck out of his face, but the day was long and emotional. He just wants to close his eyes for a moment. Just close his eyes and enjoy the feeling of another naked body pressed against his own. He will give himself five minutes. Just five. 

—————

Harry signs himself out of medical early the next morning. Ian had made it clear that Harry was to leave him alone, but after that kiss last night, Harry has no intention of following orders. He makes his way to his home to carefully clean himself up, mindful of his injuries. Once he is presentable, hair curling and free as Ian seems to prefer it, and dressed down in dark jeans and a black long-sleeved henley, he is back out, heading towards Ian’s flat. 

When he gets there he will not leave until they finally sit their arses down and talk about whatever the fuck is going on between them. Harry thought it might just be a little unresolved sexual tension that would burn itself out after a while, but after last night Harry would like to see it very much resolved, multiple times of possible. Against a wall, God willing, his bruised ribs be damned. He hails a cab in deference to the wound on his ankle. Honestly, it isn’t that big of an issue for him but he hopes that him “taking care of himself” will possibly soften Ian up. 

Once he gets to Ian’s neighborhood he has the cab drop him by the tea shop a few doors down from Ian’s flat. If taking care of himself will soften Ian up, bringing the man tea and his favorite scones will seal the deal. Harry will feed them to him if he likes. He smiles to himself as he walks up the stairs to Ian’s flat, picturing Ian gently taking a bit of scone from Harry’s fingers. 

This will most assuredly be an excellent day, he thinks.

He knocks on Ian’s door and waits for a moment for the door to open. There are no sounds coming from inside, no Gaelic cursing (as Ian was wont to do when woken up before he was ready to be awake), no heavy footfalls coming to the door. Harry knocks again, pressing an ear to the door. He knows Ian is home because the small piece of wood Ian wedges between the door and the jamb in the top left corner is not there. Beginning to worry, he carefully sets the scones and tea down as he fumbles in his pocket for the key Ian gave him months ago _(For when you run out of drink. Just leave off the expensive stuff till I get home and can enjoy it with you, understood?)_ He unlocks the door quietly and picks the food back up as he opens it. 

“Ian,” he starts as he pushes the door open with his foot, “I know you said to stay out of your sight but I have brought your favor…” Harry’s voice breaks off as a surprised, and naked, Ian shoots off the couch where he was apparently asleep on another, equally as naked, man. 

Ian's eyes boggle for a moment before he frantically begins pulling on his jeans.

The man also sits up as well. He offers Harry a quiet “Hey.”

Harry instantly thinks of five ways to inflict the most amount of pain he can in less than a minute without killing this slag who is sitting naked on the _fucking leather couch he fucking bought for fucking Ian_.

“Harry, listen,” Ian starts, jumping up and down to get his jeans on. 

Harry’s eyes flick to Ian, to the used condom on the floor and then to the naked man. He pulls his face into something he thinks is cool and calm. He forces a smile.

“No need to explain, Ian, I shouldn’t have come without calling, and I certainly should not have entered without an invitation when I knew you were home. I’ll just be off then.” He turns to go back out the door and then realizes he is still stupidly holding the scones and tea. “Oh, I picked up some tea and those scones you love, I’ll just leave them here, shall I? Yes, I shall.” To his ears his voice is rising in decibels and doesn’t even sound right to him. “Well, I will just leave you two to whatever it is that you were doing. Good morning Ian and, erm, friend.”

“Tom,” the man says.

“Right,” Harry replies and walks straight back out the door.

“Harry, please wait,” Ian calls out but Harry is down the stairs. There is a blunt pressure in his chest and his vision is fuzzy. He wonders faintly if he is having a heart attack. He should go home, go home and spend some time with Mr. Pickle. Drink a little and relax. Definitely not think about what Ian and that gorgeous man had been getting up to while he lay in his bed in medical unable to sleep for the memory of that kiss replaying in his mind on a permanent loop. 

He walks down the street quickly, not even feeling his ankle now, his fist pressed to his sternum and his breath puffing out in short little huffs. An older lady stops him with a hand on his arm. “Alright there, young man? Can I get you something?” Harry shakes his head and keeps walking.

—————

Ian scrubs his hands down his face. He wants a shower. He can feel dried come on his stomach, his mouth still has a latex aftertaste in it, and the stink of whatever the fuck his name is - _Oh, yes, Tom_ \- all over him.

“Well, that was awkward.”

“Get out.”

“Excuse me?”

“Put your fucking clothes on and,” Ian enunciates clearly as if talking to a toddler, “get out.”

“You’re a right fucker you know that?”

“Yes, I am fully aware of that. Now move before I move you.”

Ian’s mistake dresses quickly, his face thunderous. As he walks out the door, he says, “Just so you know, your gran sucks a better cock than you.” He gives Ian two fingers and slams the door shut. The tea Harry brought shivers on the table and then falls, spilling it’s contents all over the floor. Ian sits down heavily and watches it soak into the rug. 

His knees ache.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry is on his fourth cup of tea, topped off slightly with whiskey, (well, he _says_ slightly) when his doorbell rings. He ignores it. As no one but Ian ever comes to his home it is either someone trying to sell him something or Ian. Neither of which he cares to see right now.

Another knock. Harry turns the TV up and tucks his bare feet under the sleeping ball of warmth that is Mr. Pickle.

Silence. Harry is both happy and a little pissed about that until he hears his front door close. He is on his feet, teacup in one hand, no need to waste good whiskey after all, and the gun he keeps under the toile throw pillows in the other.

Ian walks into the sitting room looking unfairly fucking handsome in boots, jeans, and a tight t-shirt. Harry wants to count the man’s abs with his teeth. He does not lower the gun.

“It is normally considered polite to leave when the person whose home you are attempting to visit does not open the fucking door, Ian.”

“Well,” Ian replies, “since you waltzed into mine this morning we will call it even.”

“We will do no such thing. Anyway, why are you here Ian? Already wore out your new toy? Or do you want to kiss me some more before you go back and fuck him?” Harry finally puts the gun back in the holster behind the pillow and turns away from Ian, primly sipping his tea while looking out the back glass doors. 

“Christ, Harry, I did not actually fuck him.”

“Could have fooled me. You were both naked and the room stank of come and cheap whiskey. What were you doing then, teaching the lad his catechism? Or because you didn’t put your cock up his arse it doesn’t count?”

“Honestly, what we were doing is really none of your business,” Ian says as he tosses his jacket over a chair.

“Oh, I think it is.”

“I am dying to hear the reasoning behind this.” Ian stands at parade rest, looking attentive. He inclines his head politely towards Harry. “Please, grace me with your theory.”

Harry turns, setting his cup down with a little more force than he intended. “It’s not a _theory_ , Ian. These are facts. It is a fact that we have been dancing around each other for over a year now. I have caught you looking at me with interest, and I am man enough to admit I have looked at you the same. However, since you seemed to be inclined to leave it as is, I followed your lead, not wanting to push for more than you are willing to give. I, for one, am happy to have years of friendship with you rather than one night with your cock in me, as lovely as it may be.”

Harry watches a fine tremor make its way through Ian’s body. His neck is flushed.

Harry moves closer to Ian until he is within arm’s reach. “But last night you blow into my med room like some enraged Viking, yell at me, then give me the filthiest kiss I have ever had the pleasure of receiving and frot against me. ‘Friends’ don’t do that, Ian. At least not the friends I have. After you get done tongue fucking me, you go pull some random man and fuck your frustrations out on him. Was I just the warm up then? An apéritif to get your cock ready? Or were you so scared of what you feel for me it was just easier to find a breathing replacement for your hand? Maybe you think you’re not really queer if you don’t know their name?”

Ian is shaking visibly now, but not with arousal, with anger. 

“You are lecturing me on pulling someone? You, Harry Hart, King of the Honeypot, whose arse may have seen more than half the beds and alleys in this city? You have no problem getting drunk with me and falling asleep on my lap, telling me things that you swear you have told no one else. Ian is good for the emotional intimacy, but God forbid you get physical with me. I know you look at me, admire me, but you admire anything that has a pulse Harry, don’t think that makes me feel special. Don’t think that makes me believe you even think of me that way.”

Harry makes a noise of frustration in the back of his throat, his hands coming up to Ian’s face and he pulls their foreheads together. His eyes close and he breathes, “You are the _only_ thing I think about.”

Ian’s hands land on Harry’s hips and grip hard. “Harry.”  

Harry opens his eyes, staring into Ian’s light green ones. One of Ian’s hands moves slowly up Harry’s back to tangle in his hair. 

“Ever since that day you kissed me during training I have dreamed about this ridiculous hair.”

Harry pulls back, affronted.

“I’ll have you know…”

“For fucks sake, Harry, _shut up_.”

Ian kisses him and it is just like the night before. The kiss is filthy, possessive, and Harry is almost sure that his knees will give out at any moment. Ian’s lips leave his and Harry’s head is pulled back by his hair giving Ian access to his neck, to which he places stinging bites all the way down one side and then follows them back up, laving his tongue over the marks he made on Harry. 

Harry’s legs are shaking. 

“Ian,” he pants, “Jesus.”

Ian kisses him again, alternating deep kisses with sweet almost chaste ones. Harry pulls back, for a moment to catch his breath. 

“Ian, please…”

Ian hums against his lips in inquiry and moves his lips back to Harry’s throat.

“Take me to bed, Ian.”

Ian bites down hard and shivers against Harry, clutching him tightly. “Show me the way then,” he says as he lets go and holds out his hand. 

—————

By the time they get into Harry’s room, Ian has lost the t-shirt he was wearing somewhere around the middle of the stairs. Harry’s shirt is hanging on the door knob, and his trousers are holding on to Harry’s hips only by the grace of God. Ian stops when he sees the bandages on Harry’s neck, the binding around his ribs.

“Harry, maybe…”

“Ian, I promise you that if you finish that fucking sentence I will proceed to show you how badly I can fuck you up with two bruised ribs and gunshot wounds, and you will not find the experience pleasurable.”

“You will tell me if anything hurts.”

“I fucking swear I will tell you, Mother. Now come here and stick your tongue back in my mouth.”

Ian complies. Harry’s hands are all over him and Ian thinks he may go mad if he doesn’t get Harry completely naked right fucking now. He slips his hands into Harry's trousers, palming his arse and pushing them, and Harry’s pants, down at the same time. As soon as Harry hears them hit the ground he steps out of them gracefully without ever disengaging from Ian’s mouth. 

Harry walks them towards the bed while working at Ian’s flies. He gets them open just when his legs hit the edge of the bed and he falls backward. Ian looks down at him, all pale and lean length, angular and beautiful.

“Christ, Harry, you are one of the most striking men I have ever seen.”

“I’d like to say the same for you, but since you can’t seem to get your trousers off I will have to withhold any compliments until I see everything that is on offer.”

“Cheeky,” Ian replies, stripping off the rest of his clothing. Harry’s legs fall apart and Ian slots himself right in-between them. Both men groan as they feel the full length of their bodies touch. 

Ian rolls his hips, dragging his cock against Harry’s. “Jesus fucking Christ, Harry.”

Harry hums in agreement as he mouths messily at Ian’s neck. “Roll over, darling and lay on your back. There’s a lad.” Harry swings his leg over Ian and straddles him. He removes Ian’s glasses and set’s them on the night stand, and then rummages in the drawer for a strip of condoms and lube. Ian’s heart stutters a little at the sight of the lubricant. 

Harry is kissing him again, and then moving down, mouth at his neck, his chest, his teeth scraping across Ian’s nipples. Harry keeps moving down too, his tongue dragging over Ian’s skin making it feel too tight on his body and overheated. Harry’s tongue licks up the crease of his groin while his hand fumbles for the condoms. 

“We really should get tested because I would love nothing more than to feel your come shooting down my throat,” Harry says conversationally as he rolls the condom onto Ian’s cock. Ian’s brain short circuits as his head hits the headboard with a thud. 

He is brought back instantly by the feeling of Harry’s warm mouth around him, his tongue gently massaging the underside of his cock. Harry reaches over, grabs Ian’s hand and threads it into his hair. Ian gives an unconscious groan as his fingers grasp those curls. 

Harry pulls off. “I would be so very appreciative if you would fuck my face, Ian.”

“You filthy tart,” Ian says as he pushes Harry’s mouth back down around him, his hips thrusting in counterpoint to him dragging Harry’s mouth on and off his cock by the hair. He had wanked to this very image a million times, he swears, his hand buried in candy-floss curls while he gives Harry something to do with that wicked mouth of his besides smart off. Harry’s eyes are closed and he is moaning softly each time Ian’s cock rubs against his soft palate. His hand reaches for the lube and squirts some on his hand before it disappears between his legs. His moans get louder and the vibrations nearly drive Ian out of his head.

“God, I knew you would be good at this, sucking my cock like a rentboy I paid ten quid for a back alley blowie. Fuck. Just like that, make it all soft and wet for me.”

Harry’s eyes snap up to his and then flutter shut, a blush staining his cheeks.

“Is that what you like Harry, being told what a good little cocksucker you are?” Harry moans, his arm working between his legs. “Because you are, you’re magnificent at this. Can you take a little more for me,” Ian asks as he pushes slowly, but inexorably, down on Harry’s head, down until Ian feels Harry swallowing around him. 

“Oh, my God…” Ian breathes, his whole body trembling. He pulls Harry up by the hair again. “Get up here, I am too close to coming and I am not done with you yet.”

“Well, I would certainly hope not,” Harry answers, his voice raspy from ( _heaven help me_ , Ian thinks) Ian’s cock. “I just didn’t spend the last five minutes fingering my arsehole for you to finish before I got you inside me.”

Ian freezes and his hand shoots out the grab the base of his cock as Harry clambers back up his body.

Harry straddles him again, Ian’s cock resting just against the crease of Harry’s arse, like it knows where it wants to go. Harry’s hands come up to cradle his face as he peers into Ian’s eyes. “Ian? Darling? Is there something wrong? If you aren’t into anal sex, we can certainly find something else to do…”

“It’s not that. It’s,” Ian’s voice stutters, “it’s just that I haven’t done that before.”

“Fuck or be fucked?”

“Either. I told you that the majority of my sexual experiences have taken place in loos. Not really conducive to actual fucking. I always wanted to wait until I could take my time with it. Wait for it to mean something.” 

Harry sits back a bit and Ian worries that he just derailed the whole thing just when it was about to get really good. A smile breaks out on Harry’s face and Ian swears that if he laughs at him right now, he just doesn’t think he can take it.

“Ian, you gorgeous man. I cannot believe I am going to get to be your first.”

“Well, you don’t have to be so insufferably smug about it.”

“Of course I do, I am about to deflower you. Forever and always I will be the first arse you ever got your cock into. Lucky sod.”

“I’m not yet,” Ian says, trying to keep the tremor of lust out of his voice, “because right now all that I feel on my cock is my own hand.”

“Let’s change that shall we?”

Harry reaches behind himself, lines Ian’s cock up and slowly, so very slowly, sinks down.

“God, Ian, you’re fucking huge. I’ve thought about you splitting me open like this so many times.”

Ian, for his part, cannot form coherent thoughts, much less words. He feels like his body is one live wire, all the power coalescing in his cock as the tightest, smoothest heat he has ever felt in his entire fucking life surrounds him. He frantically thinks of mathematical formulas to keep himself from coming the moment Harry fully seats himself in his lap. Ian’s hands grab on to Harry’s hips and then snake around to grab two handfuls of arse as Harry slowly leans down to kiss him, mindful of his ribs. 

Harry begins rolling his hips, his eyes looking into Ian’s. “Ian, you feel so amazing inside of me, so perfect.” Harry begins moving with more purpose and Ian’s eyes roll back in his head.

“Harry,” he groans helplessly. He starts meeting Harry half way with shallow thrusts of his own.

“Come on, Ian, just like that. Fuck me,” Harry moans throwing his head back.

Ian plants his feet, raising his knees up behind Harry and using his large hands that are still palming that plush arse to spread it open, he moves his hips, thrusting deeper. Harry reaches forward and grabs the headboard for balance. “Fuck yes, Ian.” 

Harry is rolling his hips, meeting Ian thrust for thrust. Ian wants to slam up into him but keeps both him and Harry moving slowly, sensuously, making sure not to jostle Harry’s ribs. Ian thinks he has never seen Harry look so gorgeous as right now, curls starting to stick to his head where a sheen of sweat has broken out, a fine blush extending down his chest, and his head hung between his arms, his face slack with pleasure. 

“You’re so fucking tight around my cock, Jesus. So fucking tight. I want to stay inside of you forever, you feel so good around me.” Harry moans and pushes back against him. “I’m close Harry, I am so close.”

“Yes, come inside of me, _please_ ,” Harry says while reaching down to pull on his own cock. “Fuck, I can’t wait till we can do this bare, until I can feel you leaking out of me. Just making me filthy.” Harry begins to tremble. “ _Oh, god, yes_. I’d keep you inside of until you went completely soft and I… _Oh!_ ” Harry’s orgasm surprises them both, liquid heat falling over Ian’s chest while Harry’s arse clenches impossibly tighter around him. 

Ian tries to hold on, to fuck Harry through it, but when he looks up and sees Harry’s head thrown back, watches him tremble on his cock, Ian gives one more thrust, burying himself as deep inside as he can get, and cries out with the force of his orgasm. 

Harry lowers himself down onto Ian, kissing him sloppily, still moving his hips gently, riding out the aftershocks with him. Ian wraps his arms around Harry’s back and holds on. 

After a few moments, Harry slides off of him and goes to fetch a flannel while Ian disposes of the condom. Once they are clean, they cuddle on top of the duvet.

“Well,” Harry says, “was it everything you dreamed?”

“At the risk of stroking your overly large ego, it was better. Although I would never have taken you for having such a filthy mouth.” 

Harry smiles against his chest. “Dirty talk is an art form I’ll have you know. I, however, _knew_ you were going to be gifted at it. Every Catholic I ever have known has had the filthiest mouth. And as for my ego, no worries there Ian, I know how good in bed I am. At risk of stroking _your_ ego, you were fucking fantastic. I would have never known it was your first.”

“Jesus, Harry, it’s just fucking, You’d have to be completely daft to not get the mechanics of it. I simply calculated the perfect angle…”

“Oh my god, shut the fuck up, you’re ruining my afterglow.”

Ian laughs and runs his fingers through Harry’s hair.

“I would hope this doesn’t need saying, but given how thick you can be, it probably does, but I do hope you will spend the night here.”

“Harry, you’re a romantic.”

“Hardly, I am just hoping that later we can go again, and you can see what it’s like to get fucked. Don’t worry darling, I will be so gentle with you, treat you like the delicate flower you are.”

“You can fuck off, you prick.”

“You won’t be saying that later. But for now, do shut up, I need a nap.”

Harry curls closer to Ian, throwing a leg across his thighs and settling in like a cat. He is asleep almost instantly. Ian quickly follows, his arms around Harry and his face pressed to the top of his head. 

—————

**1990**

The fact they are together changes nothing at work. Ian is still Harry’s handler and grouses at him every single time Harry does something on a mission that Ian thinks is completely idiotic. Harry is still his agent and peacocks all over the place, dropping what he thinks are droll comments while he snaps the neck of some drug lord, and purposely doing everything he can to drive Ian to distraction (the sex is fantastic when Ian’s ire is well and truly up).

Harry finally finds out that the reason Ian is bald is because he actually _does_ shave his head every morning, with a straight razor, something that Harry finds _unbearably_ erotic. (Ian, on the other hand, could spend hours with his hands or face buried in Harry’s curls. Just the smell of Harry’s custom made shampoo is enough to make him hard in an instant.)

When they are both at home and not at the manor they practically live in each other’s pockets. Harry has Ian over for dinner. Ian sits at the counter in the kitchen and drinks wine while Harry, wearing his apron, cooks.

_“Jesus, Harry, when are you going to redecorate? It still looks like a goddamn care home in here.”_

_Harry glances around and realizes he is not much bothered by the decor in the house anymore. He finds the fussiness homey and charming, and the grandiose table and thousand pound flatware soothing in its classic lines._

_“I wasn’t really planning to. However, if you hate it so much, I’ll let you run rampant on it when you finally move in.”_

_Ian chokes on his wine and suddenly finds the newspaper he was doodling schematics on extremely interesting._

Other nights are spent at Ian’s flat where it, thanks to Harry’s prodding, is starting to look like a like a man’s home and not a uni dorm. 

_“You don’t have to bring furniture over every single time you visit, Harry. Good Christ, I can buy my own.”_

_“Yes, that new computer you just bought really adds a homey glow to the place.”_

_Ian looks at his new toy and beams. “Isn’t she beautiful?” he asks while he runs his hand across the keyboard._

_Harry rolls his eyes. “Shall I leave you two to it then? And besides, I am making an investment, this will all be mine as well when we get our own place.”_

_Ian says nothing._

And rarely, other nights are spent together, grinding against each other on dance floors, surrounded by other young beautiful men. It’s the only place Harry has found where he can be with Ian and the man doesn’t keep a respectable ‘we’re heterosexual men’ distance between them. Harry can’t even touch the man’s shoulders in a pub without him tensing up and him flicking his eyes everywhere like he is expecting a neon sign to appear above them that screams TWO MEN FUCKING.

But in a gay club, in the anonymous dark, Ian and Harry touch each other freely, hands roaming, kisses exchanged, never sparing for the other men that eye them both up with interest. Some nights they don’t even make it out of the club, instead, Harry having Ian in the back alley or vise versa. 

Harry thinks this might be love. It is exhilarating.

—————

Ian knows it is. It is terrifying. 

When he sleeps alone, either at his flat, or when Harry’s mission is long and he is lonely, Harry’s house, he dreams of the stone floor under his knees and the rod on the backs of his thighs. Other times it’s Harry being beaten in front of him. ( _If we can’t beat the devil out of you, Ian, perhaps seeing the devil being beat of him will make you walk with God and forget these sinful desires_.) Those are the nights he wakes with his face wet and his eyes sandpaper rough with crying. 

He knows he loves Harry.

A small part of him believes he’s going to hell.

—————

**1991**

Harry sits beside a medical bed looking at Ian’s unconscious form. There was a small explosion in the tech labs. Ian had been working on some new tech he had been excited about when he touched two wires together that should never have touched. 

Ian’s eyes are taped over and he is sedated. Harry is beside himself both with fear and anger. Fear that the explosion will have left Ian blind, anger that the stubborn son of a bitch was not wearing the safety goggles that Harry had bought for him. 

Harry shook out his paper pointedly. “I’ll have you know that I will no longer stand for you yelling at me for ending up in here. At least I have an excuse, out there risking life and limb, with nothing but my derring-do and good looks keeping me alive.”

Harry waits for the sarcastic reply that is not forthcoming.

“You, however, end up here because you couldn’t be arsed to wear your _fucking safety goggle_ s. God, Ian, this is what they are there for. I don’t care that you think…”

“… They make me look like a twat.”

Harry’s paper comes down to see Ian’s face turned towards him.

“Am I blind then?” Ian asks, reaching up and gingerly touching the bandages on his face.

“We…” Harry sighs, his head in his hands, “they, don’t know. Dr. Gipson said that the burns around your eyes were superficial and should heal quickly but the damage to your eyes from the brightness of the blast is unknown until they take the bandages off. Two days he thinks.”

Harry leans forward on his chair and takes Ian’s hand. Ian squeezes once and pulls it away, his body tense. Harry says nothing and leans back. 

“I’m only here for a few more hours, they have me on a simple recon mission in Scotland. Anything thing I can bring you from home, the country, or the flat?” Harry keeps his voice light and conversational. Ian keeps his face turned towards him and smiles. 

“Yes, if you could bring Angus into the kennels when you bring Mr. Pickle in before your mission, I’d be glad of it. And some of my sweatpants. These damn sheets make my bollocks itch something terrible.”

Harry is tempted to ask if he could help with that but refrains, knowing it would just make things more uncomfortable for Ian.

Harry stands, quietly folding his paper. “I’ll be back then. I may not be able to come back to your room before I leave, but I will leave a care package with the nurses. I will be back in time to be here when the bandages come off though.”

“Actually, do you think you could wait just a few minutes longer? I don’t want to be in the room by myself with no eyes. Perhaps you could read a news article or something, just until I go to sleep?”

“Of course Ian, a gentleman can hardly refuse a request for aid,” Harry replies.

“God, never mind, away with you. I can’t even roll my eyes properly.”

Harry sits and reads to Ian until the man is snoring quietly on the bed. Harry stands, leans over, and places one kiss on Ian’s forehead before he walks out the door.

He does as he promised, stopping by Ian’s after he had grabbed some necessities for his mission and Mr. Pickle. When he walks into Ian’s flat he puts Mr. Pickle down on the floor so he can go annoy Angus, something the bigger dog bears with good grace and an air of resignation (Harry finds the parallels of Harry, Ian, and the two dogs _hilarious_ ) and sits down heavily on the couch. He looks around the flat. He and Ian have been together for two years and there really is no evidence of Harry at Ian’s place, if one, of course, looks past the decor. He keeps no clothes here, not even a toothbrush, instead bringing an overnight bag when he stays over or going back to his home in the small hours of the morning. Ian has never even invited the issue so Harry has never mentioned it. 

The same goes for Harry’s house. Ian also has no personal belongings at Harry’s, only Harry _has_ mentioned it to him, but Ian simply changes the subject or distracts Harry with his mouth around his prick. Effective, but still annoying at times. 

The sex is fantastic, the underlying friendship strong, and Harry can almost catch a glimpse of years in front of them, slowly moving into middle age and beyond together. Unstoppable as agent and handler, in perfect sync as lovers. 

Even with all of that though, he cannot help but feel that he is Ian’s shameful secret. One he indulges in because he can’t stop, but wishes he could. He sees the way Ian will look at him when he is not aware of Harry observing him right back. It’s not the heated look of longing that used to be in his eyes before they became them, but it is sorrowful and maybe just a little disgusted, though at Harry or himself, Harry is not sure. 

He brings his hands down on his thighs once, the sound startling the two dogs that had just dozed off while Harry was lost in thought. Now is not the time to confront Ian on this issue. The man is in bed, hurt, and possibly facing blindness. But this has to be addressed because it is killing Harry slowly, each tense of Ian’s body when he touches him, each ignored comment about furthering the relationship, is creating a fissure in Harry’s heart. It will kill him, it will, but Harry will not be someone’s dirty little secret. 

It will wait until he gets back.

—————

The recon mission is as exactly as he thought, play up the rich little bastard for a couple days at a lovely B&B right outside Edinburgh while keeping an eye on the blackmailer who is trying to keep an eye on member of Parliament. By the time Harry leaves he has more than enough information to show the blackmailer how it is done and ensure the man never thinks about looking at things that are not his to look at again. 

When he arrives back at the manor he heads to Ian’s room first thing, after the debrief, of course, to see how he is faring. Ian is sitting up and fully alert when he walks through the door, conversing with the doctor.

“Galahad,” Gipson begins, “we were waiting for you to take off the bandages. I thought it might do Elyan good to have his best friend here for moral support.”

Harry smiles, hoping it doesn’t come across as a grimace. Ah, yes, his _best friend_.

“Harry? Everything go alright?”

“Yes, somehow I managed to make it through without your craggy voice grousing in my ear.”

“Fuck off. Now get over here, I want to see your poncy face first if I am able to see at all.”

Harry sits down on the chair next to the bed, pulls it forward and gently touches Ian’s arm. “I’m on this side,” he says and Ian orients himself.

Gipson starts taking the bandages off. Harry can see the red, raw skin around Ian’s face where the heat had burned it, but it looks like it was healing well. Gipson assured them there should be no scarring, and his eyebrows _should_ grow back. ( _“Shut your gob, Harry.”_ )

Gipson finishes removing the tape from Ian’s eyes and steps back. “Now open them slowly, Elyan, the light is bound to be bright. Don’t let any pain alarm you too much, it is normal with injuries such as this.”

Harry watches, his hand still lightly on Ian’s arm, as Ian opens his eyes. They are still the deep moss green and brown that Harry adores, but the whites are red and angry looking. Ian blinks repeatedly as they begin to water.

“Ian, can you see anything?”

“Yes.” 

Harry’s shoulders slump in relief.

“It’s blurry as fuck all, but I can definitely see that you are in dire need of a shave Harry, honestly, what happened to,” Ian does a surprisingly accurate impersonation of Harry, “ _a gentleman is always neat, Ian_?” 

Harry smiles at him, his own eyes a little watery, and squeezes Ian’s bicep. For once, Ian doesn’t shrug away.

“That is wonderful news, Elyan. I think, with what you’re saying your eyesight is now, it should be no more than a week, perhaps less, before you are at your post in limited capacity. Although this time, let’s make sure we are using proper safety measures, hmm?” Ian nods. “Now, I can’t let you go home like this, but if you have somewhere that you could stay while you recover you are free to go.”

“Of course,” Harry begins, “He can come…”

“No, I will stay right here.”

“Ian, come now, I am perfectly happy to allow you to stay with me while you recover.” Harry says, thinking _this is what lovers do, you stubborn fuck_. 

“No, Harry, I cannot impose on our friendship like that. I’ll stay here if that is okay with you Dr. Gipson.”

“I’ll let the nurse know then. Now, if you excuse me, I need to check on Beaumains. He somehow shot himself in the foot and is convinced he is going to lose it.” He rolls his eyes and leaves the room.

Harry reaches for Ian’s hand and brings it to his lips. “Thank Christ, Ian, I was so worried your sight would be gone. However would you appreciate my beauty then,” Harry adds, going for levity. “Although I don’t know why you won’t come to mine while you recover.”

“We are at work, Harry,” Ian says, gently pulling his hand away. “And the reason I can’t go to your house is that I am already hearing people talk about how much time we spend together. The last thing I need to get around is that I’m a queer. I’ll be stuck as a handler forever. There’s no way Arthur would even think of promoting me.”

“Funny, it hasn’t caused me any trouble.” Harry leans back in his chair.

“It wouldn’t, would it? Half the manor knows you go on male honeypots and _enthusiastically_ enjoy them. If you could hear what is…”

“I could give two fucking shits about what these people think of me,” Harry interrupts, his voice harsh. 

“Well, _I do_ , and I don’t want it getting around that we are fucking for fuck's sake. I have a career to think about, Harry. You know how important that is to me, why I need it.”

“I do know Ian, but I thought that I was important to you as well.” Harry stands. “I am glad to know that you are going to recover,” his voice cool, “I will leave you to rest and ask that someone go by your flat to get anything you need.”

“No one has a key to get in my flat, Harry.”

Harry rummages in his pocket, fiddles with his key ring, and lays a key down on the table in front of Ian. “They can have mine.”

“Harry, please, don’t do this. Let me get out of here and we can talk.”

“There is nothing to talk about. I will not be your dirty little side piece, Ian, like the mistress who is too embarrassing to be discussed at parties but excellent for a dirty and shameful shag in a dark closet. I wish you a speedy recovery and hope to have you back as my handler soon. Good day.” Harry looks at the key one more time and walks out the door. Once it has closed behind him, he looks back through the small square window even though he knows he shouldn’t. Inside Ian has the key in the fist he has pressed to his lips. 

Ian’s shoulders shake.

Harry reaches for the door handle ready to go back in, take back everything he said, but he drops his hand before it makes contact and walks away. 

He makes it to his onsite quarters just in time to walk in, shut the door, and break apart.

A few days later Ian finds him in his rooms, fresh off a mission. Harry is sipping from a glass, fully intending on going straight to the bottle before long, when a knock sounds at his door. 

“Come in,” Harry calls. He is surprised to see Ian walk in. His eyes are still red and irritated, but they no longer water constantly. The burns have healed nicely, and his eyebrows _are_ growing back. Two weeks ago Harry would have made a crack about him being able to grow hair on at least one part of his head, but now. 

Well.

“Something I can do for you, Ian?”

“Yes, you can. You can talk to me before we end up ruining something that is good, Harry, more than good.”

Harry sighs and sets down his glass. He may be hitting the bottle straight sooner than suspected.

“I don’t see what there is to talk about, Ian. I said my piece.”

“Yes, you did, you self-important bastard, but you didn’t  give me a chance to say a fucking thing.”

“I think you said enough. You made it very clear that you do not want to sully your career chances with even a hint of a rumor that you might be fucking me in the arse, or even _worse_ , vice versa.”

“Fucking hell, Harry,” Ian yells, slamming his hand against the wall so hard the photos shake. “Not all of us come from the life you do. Money, family, connections. Some of us have to work for every scrap we get. If you haven’t noticed, homosexuality isn’t particularly well-tolerated within Kingsman, or even England. Arthur can barely look you in the face when you come back from a honeypot, and he hates me on principle. I’m a _Schemie_. God forbid I be a queer as well.”

Harry stands, smoothing his hair back and drawing up to his full height. “Is that what you think of me, Ian? Did you just make those assumptions? That I come from a family of money is true. That the Hart name does carry with it some weight and connections, all true. But what is not true is that I have access to that or to any of my family. My parents disowned me at eighteen when they found me in the stables with my best friend, my _male_ best friend. I was cut off from the money and summarily shunned in all the circles I had been raised in. I left the house with what I could carry in a duffle and the little bit of money, and I do mean little, I had in my personal account. The only person who would talk to me was Auntie Marie because she liked to think of herself as ‘bohemian’ and open minded, and therefore was just as despised by the family as I was. I joined the RAMC and never spoke to any of them again, nor they to me. So, you see, despite what you may think of my ‘charmed’ life, I am fully aware of what being a queer can cost you.”

“But you don’t have to be, Harry, you like women. You could settle down with one, knock her up a few times and have a nice little life. Maybe even get back into the family name, inherit a nice little baronhood for yourself. I cannot.”

“What in the hell does that have to do with anything? Jesus, is this what we are going to do all night? Play which queer has it the worst? Because everyone's life is fucking shit somehow Ian, big surprise there, but what matters is trying to do what we can to make it less shit. Yes, I like fucking women, and if I ever met one I wanted more than a few hours of fun with perhaps the idyllic heterosexual life would appeal to me. But as of yet I haven’t. But you? I can see us together years from now, if I make it that long. _That_ is the idyllic life that appeals to me, but you can’t even stay at my house for a week for fear of someone talking. If you can’t do that, how on earth can you make the commitment I want from you?”

“Harry, you know why I am the way I am. You _know_.”

“I do, Ian, and I do my best to understand, but I also know that there comes a time where you have to start living for yourself. When you need to make peace with your past and move forward. I am willing to help you do that, be patient with you, but you have to be willing to make the first step.”

“I don’t know if I can, Harry. God, I love you like I have never ever loved anyone before, but I just don’t know if I can.”

“Then I suggest you go home and think about it. Take all the time you need and hopefully, I will still be waiting here when you figure it out. I love you as well Ian, so much more than I thought I would, but I will not be kept in the closet because of your fear. Now please, let me rest. You and I both have some decisions to make, and I need to sleep.”

Ian nods once and steps closer to Harry. Their arms go around each other without thought, their faces against the other’s neck.

“I do love you, Harry.”

“I know Ian, I just don’t know if it will be enough.”


	4. Chapter 4

Ian doesn’t see Harry for anything other than work related reasons for more than a week. Harry looks at him sadly from time to time, but he never pushes, never seeks Ian out to demand answers. He gives Ian his space, and for that he is grateful.

And Ian does do what he promised he would, he thinks and thinks and thinks. He thinks about the hate he was raised with and about how that hate, even though he knows it is a load of bollocks, has made a place for itself in his head. He thinks about Harry and how he has never had anything like what he has with him before, a friendship, a bond. He wonders if he could have had a chance with someone else he had met had he not had been brought up by rod and bible. He tries picturing a life that Harry described, them growing old together, Kingsman’s mortality rate notwithstanding. He can see it, he really can. He can see it from both sides, he can see them as friends because he knows deep down that they _will_ remain friends even if they do not remain lovers, and he can see them as lovers as well. Old, contented, stuck in their ways, bitching at each other over tea and jam while their feet are firmly entangled under the table. 

He knows which he wants, he just doesn’t know if he is brave enough to go after it. Brave enough to face the judgment, the hatred, to be willing to walk away from Kingsman if it all becomes too much. 

He doesn’t know.

He slips a letter under Harry’s office door that night.

_Harry,_

_I just wanted you to know how much I have appreciated the space you have been giving me over the past week. I am still trying to figure out what I want and what that means for us. I think it would be rather shit of me to come back to you unless I know I am ready to give us the chance we deserve. I don’t know how long it will take, and I am not daft enough to expect you to wait for me. It could take a week more, it could take a year. The fear that was literally beat into me as a child is not something I can shake off overnight, and it wouldn’t be, to borrow your favorite word, gentlemanly to expect you to save yourself like some maiden in a tower, although I can see the drama of it all appealing to you._

_I love you. Never doubt that, no matter where we go from here, never doubt that._

_Ian._

The next night he receives one in return, a creamy thick fold of paper whispering under his door as he worked late. He did not need to open the door to see who it was from, he could smell the pomposity from where he sat. Fucking Harry. 

_Ian,_

_There is nothing to thank me for. You are right. Until you can come to me willing to be with me fully and give a relationship a try, out of the closet, so to speak, then I agree, it is better to remain friends. Because, and I hope you know this, I am always your friend, no matter where we end up, either back in bed or each other’s wingmen when we are out on the pull. Imagine that, I could chat some nice man up for you by extolling the virtues of your bloody fantastic blowjobs while you chat some other man up for me by telling them that while I am fantastic in bed, and you know I am, stop shaking that obnoxiously shiny head of yours, he should make sure he gets the first shower because I am in there for hours._

_On second thought, perhaps we should just stick to a few pints and call it a night._

_As for waiting like a maiden in a tower (I certainly have the flaxen tresses for it if not the virtue), I won’t profess I plan to live as a monk, but I can honestly say at this point I have zero desire for anyone else. At least at this time. I do have to walk out of the manor and look at other people at some point today._

_But all joking aside Ian, I understand that you have a lot to work through, and I also know years of conditioning is not going to shake itself out within a few days. If we are meant to be lovers, and I won’t lie and say I do not hope for that, we will be, and if we aren’t, we will always be friends. Always._

_Yours,_

_HRH, III_

—————

**1991 - Two months later**

Ian awakens in a white room, his neck throbbing on the right side. He reaches his hand up to it and feels a small injection site. Right, not here of his own volition then. He is still in his trousers he put on that morning, his socks and shirt remain. His glasses are perched on his face, but his jumper, tie, and shoes were gone, those replaced with soft-soled slip ons. He sits up on the bed he was laid out on and looks around. He is in what seems to be a single room lit by recessed lighting in the ceiling, containing a bed, a table and chair, and one door on the right of him and one other directly in front of him. Everything in it, except for his slate gray trousers, is white. A bottle of water sits on the table, along with two tablets. He stares at them warily, trying to remember just how the hell he got here. 

He remembers leaving his flat that morning, taking the train into the manor. He remembers bidding Harry farewell before he flew out for Dubai to do some establishing work on what they hoped would be a long-term cover for Harry, a Mr. Harold Rutherven. For a week Harry was going to flash money, act like a playboy, and hopefully, attract the right attention of all the wrong people. Being the peacock he was, Ian had no doubt Harry would accomplish this in spades. Two of the other handlers would be watching Harry through that, so that night, after running Bors through an obstacle course he was building on the grounds, Ian left the manor and headed home. After leaving the shop, his memory is blank. 

He stands up slowly, not knowing how what ever he was injected with would affect his balance or movements. He remains steady. Encouraged by that he begins by inspecting the room he is in. The door directly in front of him has no knob on his side of it, and the seam between it and the surrounding wall is so tight he can barely fit the tip of his finger into it. To the left of the door is another small square door also with no means of opening it from his side, a small shelf is affixed to the wall directly under it. The table and chair have no sharp edges. The table is bolted to the floor, as is the bed. Behind the other door, he finds a small bathroom containing a shower, sink, and toilet. On the shelf next to the sink and mirror are basic toiletries, including a safety razor. The mirror is covered by a thin, clear plastic casing that is bolted to the wall, most likely so that he cannot break it into shards to use as a weapon. As he walks back into the larger room, he notices a small camera in the top right corner of the room, also protected by plastic. 

He picks up the bottle of water, the two tablets, and carries them back into the bathroom. He drops the tablets in the toilet and flushes. He then empties the bottle into the sink, refilling it from the tap. Returning to the other room once more, he sits cross-legged on the bed, slowly sipping from the bottle, his back against the wall.

He waits. 

—————

“Mr. McClaggen, good morning.” 

Ian startles awake, almost upending the half-empty bottle of water that is in his lap. He does not remember falling asleep. He looks around quickly, trying to discover the source of the voice.

“You are safe here, Ian. May I call you Ian?” the voice, male, American, deeply southern, drawled through the room. “I was hoping we could have some friendly conversation this morning, so I am going to need you to get down on your knees, fingers interlocked behind your head, facing the bed and away from the door. Two of my men, armed of course, will come in and secure you. No harm will come to you if you cooperate.”

Ian gets up off the bed slowly, going to his knees as instructed. Until he gets a better handle on the situation, he will do as he is told. Assess, learn, respond. Those are the steps that will keep him alive, and get him out. 

The door hisses open behind him. Ian listens as two men walk in. One stops directly behind him, securing a hand cuff to his left wrist. The other stops in front of him, a gun pointed directly in his face. Ian looks at him, bored. He is pulled to his feet, walked over to the chair, and secured to it. The man with the gun moves behind him, gun coming to rest at the base of Ian’s skull, while the other walks over to the still open door and nods. A tall man enters the room followed by another man holding a gun. His dark hair is cut short, almost military in style, and his suit is typical American new money, single-breasted with large shoulders and a tie that makes Ian’s eyes hurt, despite the fact it is obviously expensive. He looks like a man who enjoys the finer things in life as the rings on his fingers and the way his suit strains around his middle attests to.

“Ian, thank you so very much for behaving for my men here. They are always a little twitchy when we have a new guest, but your gentlemanly behavior will go a long way to easing their minds.” Ian remains quiet. A third man brings in a chair. The man sits across from Ian. “Now, since we are fixing to be friends, and I sincerely hope we are Ian, we should be on a first name basis. My name is Colton Halstead. I’d offer to shake hands, but,” he glances at where Ian’s hands are secured behind him, “let’s just say it’s the thought that counts.

“I do apologize for the way you were brought in, but I didn’t think you would just come quietly if I invited you.” Colton laughs, smiling at Ian. Ian continues to stare back, not speaking. “I understand that you’re probably angry with me, son, and if I were to let you out of that chair, you would probably fix me and my boys good, but I hope that you will hear me out when I say I have a business proposition for you, and you will give it some diligent thought and consideration.” Colton waits for Ian to respond and sighs when he doesn’t.

“Looks like I am going to be the only one talking. A bit rude if you were asking me. My momma would have clubbed me a good one if I acted like this to someone showing me hospitality, but let’s just look over that. I am a businessman that helps my partners move products around the U.S. Now, these products aren’t the most legal of things, at least in the government’s eyes, but my partners depend on me.” Colton leans forward like he and Ian are old friends. 

“Used to be, we could move our goods around prettily easily, staying one step ahead of the authorities, but it’s getting harder and harder to do that with all the new toys the feds have. I’m just some good old boy from the backwoods of Georgia trying to make an honest buck. I don’t know nothing about these computers, surveillance doohickeys, and all the other things the feds seem to trot out every day. That’s why I need a guy like you, Ian. Someone who not only knows what is coming out but is already making the things that can counteract them.”

For all that Colton plays up the “good old boy” act, Ian would bet his right eye tooth that the man is ten times smarter than what he letting on.

“Oh? And how’d you find out about me?” Colton looks startled when Ian finally speaks.

“A little birdie told me about you. You remember Gwendolyn, I’m sure, because she sure remembered you. She came to me because her father had done some work for me a while back. Told me about you, and Kingsman, and all those interesting things that come out of your place of employ. You don’t have to worry about her though, after she told me what I needed to know, I handed her over to a friend. She’s doing a lot of traveling now, meeting new friends and such.”

Ian did remember Gwendolyn. She was a tech he showed the door to at Merlin’s request. She had been taking pieces of tech out of the labs and stockpiling them in her flat. They supposed she had plans to sell them on the black market. She had been handed over to Aglovale for her memory to be wiped. Apparently, it had not been. He makes a mental note to bring it up with the smarmy fuck next time he sees him.

Ian snorts. “She told you wrong then, I’m just a gobshite clerk in a tailor shop.”

“Funny how a clerk had a very interesting watch and shoes that can kill a man. One of the boys dropped your shoes and almost shit himself when a blade popped out of the toe. Accidentally nicked himself when he picked them up. Call me a liar if that little fucker didn’t turn green and die in front of me in less than a minute. That’s the kind of stuff I need. So, Ian, would you like to come work for me?”

“Not if my life depended on it.”

“That’s too bad, Ian. It’s really a shame because your life does depend on it. But, you’re in luck, my momma raised me to be a gracious man. _‘Colton,’_ she would always tell me when I’d come home from a fight, _you got to give people a chance to get to know you before you start beating on them. Talking to them will bring them around to your way of thinking a lot quicker than your fist will.’_   So in honor of my momma, I am going to give you some time to think about it. Until then I hope you will enjoy my hospitality and let me know if there is anything you require.” He looks at his men. “Un-cuff him after I leave the room.”

Colton leaves while Three removes the chair and follows him. Two keeps the gun trained on the back of his head while One un-cuffs one hand, moving it and the still cuffed hand to his head once more. Ian is walked back to the bed, facing it, pushed back down to his knees, and finally released completely. He stays in the position until he hears the door hiss close. Once he is sure he is alone he stands slowly, stretching out the ache in his shoulders from being cuffed. A few moments later, the small square door opens and a tray is pushed through. On it rests another bottle of water, a thermos filled with hot water Ian guesses, considering the tea bags beside it, and a sandwich. He leaves the tray where it is, instead refilling the bottle he had earlier. He can go a few days without food easily. 

He lays down on the bed. He has to come up with a plan. 

Days follow. His only sense of time comes from the periodic food being pushed through the window next to the door. Cereal, or other breakfast type foods mean it’s morning. For lunch it usually some sort of sandwich, soup, or a combination thereof, while dinner brings him a steak, fish, and other savories. He must be a good boy indeed, because he even gets his pudding at night. He tried to hold out and not eat the food, but by the third day of surviving on only water, he realized he was only hurting himself. If Colton wanted to poison him, or drug him, he could have just pushed it through the air vents, and by not eating, he is only allowing himself to weaken, making an escape that much more unlikely. So he eats. And he exercises, keeping himself in as good of shape as he can.

He’s been trying to keep track of the days in his mind but the bland white of his surroundings, and the lights that _never fucking_ turn off, leave him with almost no sensory input which starting to drive him mad. He figures it must be between three and four weeks by now. Is anyone looking for him? With Harry gone no one would have realized he was missing until the next morning, giving Colton enough time to have taken him anywhere. Christ, he could be in the States for all he knows.

Colton comes and goes every few days, tries to bribe Ian with money, power, etc, etc. Ian either just sits and listens, or if he is feeling really bored, sings those bawdy drinking songs he taught Harry that first night. He almost wishes the man would set his boys on him for a small diversion to break up the monotony. 

From what he can tell, there is no rhyme or reason to the visits, the food, or anything during his day, no rhythm he can use to get his mental feet under him, no pattern to take advantage of.

He asks for a pencil and graph paper, and once he has it, he spends hours planning technology for when he returns to Kingsman. They must be looking for him by now, Harry and Merlin. Until they find him he might as well keep himself busy. 

—————

He is in the middle of brainstorming a way of seeing things through an agent’s perspective, when One and Two come back to his room. They stand, holding their guns and staring at him until he puts his work to the side, stands up slowly, and goes to his knees. They cuff him to the chair he just vacated just as Colton walks in.

“Ian, I hope you are finding your stay comfortable. I see you have been making use of the pencil and paper you were given, planning out toys for me?” Colton smiles, looking over the paper. “Doesn’t make a fucking lick of sense to me, but then again, I’m not the genius here, am I?”

“No, you aren’t,” Ian responds coldly.

“I really thought you and I might have made nice by now Ian, but I see you think your friends are coming for you, gonna save you from big bad old me. They aren’t, Ian. They don’t even care that you’re gone.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me, how important is a shop clerk?” Ian knows the whole shop clerk line is shite by now, but he isn’t going to give this portly fuck an inch. Kingsman will come. Harry will come.

“Bring it in boys.” 

Two more goons wheel in a TV and VCR, positioning it in front of Ian.

“Now, I have been watching your friends, particularly your boyfriend, the pretty one with the hair…” 

Ian can’t help it, he flinches from hearing Harry referred to as such in the open. Instinct is too close to the surface for him right now.

“No, I am not judging. Shit, Ian, you come work for me and I will make sure you have anything you want, men, boys, as many as you want. A happy bee is a productive bee my momma always said. I don’t care where you stick it, Ian, as long as you keep working. But back to your boyfriend, he doesn’t seem to awfully put out by the fact you aren’t around I’ll tell you that. I don’t expect you to believe me of course, but you can believe your own eyes. I am gonna leave this right here and let you watch a little movie I put together for you. After you watch it we are going to talk some more. I’d offer you some popcorn, but I don’t think you will want it when you see this.”

Colton stands up and clicks his fingers, much like Ian does to call Angus… _God, Angus!_ He hopes someone is taking care of him. The men follow him out, one of them hitting play as they walk through the door. 

The video begins to play, and Ian shuts his eyes, refusing to watch anything this arsehole has cobbled together in order to trick him.

Soon though, curiosity wins out and he looks. Harry is on the screen and Ian greedily drinks in the sight of him. He is gorgeous in his suit, his hair slicked back perfectly, with a charming smile plastered on his face. Fuck, does he miss that flash bastard, more than he even realized. 

The camera angle must be from a security camera because he can see that Harry is at a party or gala or _something_. He is mingling with the guests, making small talk, throwing back his beautiful head and laughing. He’s been gone a month and Harry is at a party? The small dinner he ate turns to lead in his stomach. Moments later, Harry is joined by a beautiful woman, small and shapely, dark hair halfway down her back, with almond shaped eyes and blue dress that only accented the deep coffee-cream tone of her skin. As she leads him away from the group he was talking to the camera follows them. They make their way to a table on the side where the woman practically sits in Harry’s lap, him holding her with one hand clasped tightly around a plump hip. He presses kisses to her bare arm and stares at her adoringly. 

Ian’s heart breaks. This is what he told Harry, that he could have a “normal” life with a wife, but to see him actually having it while Ian is god only knows where makes Ian feel like someone has stripped off his skin and rubbed him with sandpaper. Tears fall from his eyes, tears he can’t even wipe away because his hands are still cuffed behind him. 

The woman wraps her hand around the back of Harry’s neck, playing with the soft, short hairs there. Then after they talk for a few moments, she stands and pulls him through a door.

New frame: Harry and the woman again, this time at dinner. Their hands are clasped on the table, Harry’s thumb rubbing against her knuckles. 

New Frame: Harry and the woman shopping, hand in hand.

New Frame: Harry leading the woman into a house, the lights go off.

New Frame. New Frame. New Frame.

Ian sits devastated. 

The guards come in sometime later to wheel out the TV and to release him. He puts up zero resistance, going where he is manhandled. 

No one comes to see him for three days. He doesn’t leave his bed. 

————— 

Colton comes back. “You see that your boy ain’t looking for you now right, Ian? He’s moved on, found him some little bunny to shack up with. No one is coming, Ian, surely you see that.”

“Oh, yes, I see something. I see that you can go fuck yourself.”

He surprises Ian by backhanding him hard enough to snap his head to the side and split his lip. When Ian shakes his head to clear it and bring it to the front, Colton does it again from the other side. He shakes out his hands.

“You best start being mannerly, your welcome is getting a bit thin.”

That night, after he eats his dinner, the TV is rolled in again. Ian is not restrained this time but the TV cart is protected by a cover so he cannot break it. The door shuts. The television turns on of its own volition. It’s a bedroom, Harry and his new lover are on the bed. Naked. Fucking. And lucky him, this one comes with sound.

Harry’s body is on full display and Ian cannot help the way he stares. Harry lies between the woman’s legs and is going down on her, quite spectacularly if her moans are anything to go by. The shot is from the side, so but he can just see how Harry’s mouth glistens when he lifts up his head. Harry kisses her inner thighs as she runs her hands through his hair, teasing out the curl. Harry smiles at her and lowers his head once more, driving her with his tongue, and from the movement of his shoulder, his fingers, to her first orgasm of the night. 

“You’re perfection, Tessa.”

“Harry,” she says, reaching for him, “come up here and kiss me.”

Harry crawls up her body and goes in for a kiss, Tessa stops him before he gets to her lips and slowly licks herself off of his face. Harry’s eyes flutter shut and his hips grind down against her. She grabs a condom and opens it, slowly reaching down to roll it on him while Harry looks down between them and watches her do it.

Harry moves her onto her side and gets behind her. She throws her head back and moans as he enters her, slowly rolling his hips in a move that Ian knows feels amazing. He can almost feel Harry behind him, that same hip roll moving Harry deeper within him, so slow that Ian loses his mind. Harry’s voice would be in his ear whispering…

“I love you,” Harry on the TV says, “you are everything I never knew I needed.” He kisses Tessa slowly, deeply, just the way he is fucking her. Just the way he used to fuck Ian. 

He turns away from the TV, he cannot watch this he thinks as the moans grow more heated, the sound of skin on skin making him crazy. Tessa comes first, practically screaming her orgasm out, Harry follows her moaning out her name. 

Silence. Ian breathes. Breathes. Breathes. He shakes apart and wraps his arms around his middle to keep the pieces together. Minutes pass and he slowly calms himself down. 

The television switches on again. The same scene. All night it plays, over and over again. By the fifth time, Ian has the pillows around his ears as he cries. By the fifteenth, he is begging for them to shut it off. 

They do not.

“I love you,” Harry says to someone that isn’t him. 

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

They take the television away in the morning and Ian finally falls into a deep sleep, mentally and emotionally drained. He wakes to see that it’s evening, if the plate on the tray is any indicator.

He eats methodically. They are not coming, he thinks. He will have to make his own way out. During training, especially during torture training, they were always told to take everything that is doled out. Do not fight back. Do not react. Retreat further and further into yourself and _allow_ yourself to be defeated. Hold your strength so far down inside that only you can see it and then look for _weaknesses_. Use those against your captors.

First things first, he needs out of this room. 

He expects to see Colton the next day but the man never shows, instead another week goes by without seeing anyone. Ian spends his time staring despondently at the wall, in full view of the camera, making notes on his paper, and exercising in the bathroom, out of view of the camera. He picks at his food, making sure he eats enough protein to keep his strength up, but not so much it throws off the impression of being broken.

One night the television is rolled back in. Ian stares at it in trepidation. It comes on. Harry and Tessa are in another hotel room, but thankfully fully dressed this time. They are eating dinner. Tessa’s silk stockinged foot rests in Harry’s lap while he pets it gently. Then, putting down his napkin, he gently lowers her foot to the ground, moves around the table to her, and goes down on one knee.

“Darling,” Ian flinches at the word, “I know we have only been seeing each other for two months, but I feel as if I have been with you since the beginning of time. I never thought I would find someone that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, and now I have.” Harry holds out a ring box.

Ian gets up of the bed, grabs the metal chair that he has been tied to many times. Bringing it up over his head, he crashes it down on to the plastic box containing the television over and over and over until the whole cart topples forward, the tv slamming into its protective covering and going off with a puff of smoke and sparks. Ian keeps bringing the chair down until the legs are bent, twisted. He is crying in his rage. 

The next morning someone comes in to get the cart and the chair. Ian is lying with his back to the door. 

“Tell Colton I am ready to talk.”

Within the hour actual clothes are delivered to him, jeans, shoes, soft jumpers and pants. By the time he is showered and dressed Colton is waiting for him at the table in his room, a new chair sitting empty for him. 

He tells Colton what he wants to hear and shakes his hand.

—————

It’s been two weeks since he was let outside his room and into the building proper. The first week he has a shadow, an armed guard that follows him everywhere, including the loo. (“If you wanted to see my cock lad, you could have just asked. You’re pretty enough.” The man pales and stares straight ahead while Ian laughs.) He later learns the guard’s name is Jim. He winks every time he catches old Jimmy-boy watching him. Jim just turns an ugly shade of puce and looks like he is trying not to vomit. It’s not like everybody in here doesn’t already know he likes men. 

He keeps his head down, working on the small time projects Colton pushes his way to test him. He sees no one but the guards and Colton when the man stops by for periodic updates. He eventually proves himself to be well behaved enough to lose his shadow, but he is under no illusion he is not being watched still. More specialized projects are pushed to him. He works on them but he only makes small improvements to them, ones that seem a lot more technical than they really are, and are guaranteed to do fuck all to help Colton.

However, Colton must be pleased because at the end of the third week he walks into his room and sees a man already in there. A strip of condoms and a bottle of lube rests on the table next to the bed. 

“And who might you be?” 

“Whatever you want me to be,” the man answers in a British accent, the first Ian has heard (other than Harry and Tessa) since being brought here. A good chance he is still in England then, because while the guards are American, they are also Colton’s men. Ian eyes him critically. He is pretty, Ian can’t deny that. A little shorter than him, but thick through the thighs and waist, slightly tanned, and gorgeous blue eyes contrasting with his dark hair. He can’t be a day over twenty.

“And if I want you to be gone?”

“I can do that, sir, but I think it would be a lot more fun if I stayed. Don’t you?”

Ian is tempted. He has been here for almost three months now, he knows that because he swiped a calendar from the workroom to tick off each day. He could have a nice leisurely revenge fuck or he could send the man packing. 

“What’s your name?”

“Michael, but you can call me what you want.” Michael bats his eye lashes at him coyly.

His cock wins. He takes his shirt off and throws it over the camera. “Well, Michael, you should probably take off your clothes and kneel for me.”

Michael complies quickly, stripping efficiently, and falling to his knees. 

Ian walks over to him, opening his jeans and pulling out his cock. He strokes himself to hardness and rolls on a condom. He stops in front of Michael and taps his lower lip. “Hows your gag reflex Michael?”

“Non-existent.” 

“Yes, that will do nicely. You can stop any of this at any time by saying ‘Red,’ or squeezing both my ankles if your mouth is busy, understand?” Michael nods. “Good, open.” Michael does so. Ian grabs him by his hair and starts fucking his face ruthlessly. Michael sputters and chokes a bit, but Ian doesn’t let up. Colton intended him to use this man for his pleasure and so he will. 

Ian continues until he can feel the orgasm creeping down his spine, its tendrils sneaking around his bollocks, drawing them up. He pulls away from Michael. 

“Up and over the bed, lad. Get yourself ready for me. And put a condom on. I don’t need a mess to clean up.”

Michael looks up at him, glazed eyes and sloppy mouth.

“Did I stutter?” Michael hops up and grabs the lube. He bends over the bed, presenting himself and slowly opening himself up, moaning as he does so. The view is pleasing but Ian could literally care less. He just wants a hole to fuck at this point, he doesn’t care a wit who it’s attached to. 

Once he can see Michael is up to three fingers, he stops him. “That’s good. Both hands on the bed.” Ian walks over to him, lines up, thrusts home in one slow but unrelenting slide, and starts snapping his hips. 

“I hope you can get yourself off. While I am normally a - _Jesus, you’re still fucking tight as a miser’s purse_ \- a generous lover, I am not in the mood tonight. 

Michael moans something back and starts throwing his hips back into Ian. “Oh, yes, that’s it, lad,” Ian stops thrusting and stands still, hands resting on the man’s back. “Fuck yourself on me, let me see it, how much a slag like you wants it.” 

Michael is moaning and breathing heavily by now, throwing himself back so hard Ian has to actively hang on. He clenches down on Ian every move forward and opens on every back stroke. 

“I’m fucking close, so I hope you are,” Ian grunts out.

He stills Michael, grabs his hips and starts fucking him again with deep strokes that become urgent within a few moments. Michael has dropped his chest to the bed by this time, keening and fisting his cock. “Fuck, fuck,” Micheal chants each time Ian pushes in.

Ian slams into him, over and over again until Michael raises off the bed with the force of his orgasm. Ian grabs him by the hair, forcing his body into a tight bow. He slams home, once, twice and a third time, and stays in coming with a groan. He lets go of his hair and Michael collapses on the bed, breathing heavily. 

Ian stands behind him panting, his legs come dumb, watching his cock soften slowly. He resolutely does not think of the fact that the only other man he has ever been inside of is Harry. He feels like he sullied something. He pulls off the condom, ties it off and tosses it in the in the bin next to the bed.

“I am taking a shower and I expect you out by the time I am done.” Micheal still lies on the bed. Ian catches the look on his face before he schools it into something else, something more accommodating. “And as tight as you were, tell Colton next time he wants to give me a present, he can send a fucking book and some more sketch paper. I don’t need to be bribed with rent boys, but thanks for the fuck.”

—————

“I am glad to see you’re adapting to everything Ian. Although I hope you’re not lonely. Are you sure I can’t send someone else to keep you company?”

Colton was back in his room. It and the lab are the only places he ever sees Colton in. Ian is almost positive the building he is in has only his room, the work lab, and a second bathroom. 

 Ian nods, sipping the tea Colton brought to him.

“Yes, I’m enjoying the work, but I am solitary by nature. Comes from being brought up in an orphanage I suppose. I, of course, mean no offense.” Ian sets his tea down.

“Not at all. I have to say that I am very impressed with the work you have been doing. Of course, there’s been a few fuck-ups with it out in the field, but I mean, that’s progress, ain’t it? I wanted to know if there is anything I can do for you, anything you would like. You’re becoming a valued member of my team and I want to keep you happy.”

“A happy bee is a productive bee?”

Colton laughs loudly. “Yessir, at least according to Momma. So what can I do for you? You don’t want a man. Would you like to know more about your wayward boy? I’ve been keeping tabs on him for you. Him and his woman seem to be looking at houses now.” 

Ian clenches his teeth so hard he thinks he may crack one. 

“I could punish him for you, Ian, or bring him here so you can hurt him yourself.”

Ian’s hand slams the tea cup down on the table next to him and he breathes quickly through his nose. “My apologies. No, leave him as he is, he’s made his choice as I have made mine. I will let you know I need anything Colton, thank you. However, if you will excuse me, it’s getting late, or at least I feel as if it is. I want to get an early start tomorrow and relax a little before bed.”

“Of course, of course.”

“There is one thing, perhaps I could start doing my morning yoga outside in the mornings.”

Colton eyes him suspiciously and Ian wonders if he has overplayed his hand, then Colton smiles at him. 

“I think we can arrange that, but I will have to insist two of my men accompany you out. Wouldn’t want you wandering away. You understand, of course, Ian? No harm meant.”

“Yes, that will be perfect. Thank you.”

After the next morning’s yoga, Jim follows Ian back to his room and right before he enters, Jim speaks. “I’m watching you, fucker. One wrong move and I won’t hesitate to shoot. One less fag on the earth won’t make a fucking difference will it?”

Ian turns to him, walking directly up into his space. “I’ll be fucking looking forward to it, won’t I?”

The next day confirms three things for him. One, the building he is being kept in is small, most likely exactly what he thought, his room and the work room. Two, from the land around him, he is definitely still in England, pretty far north by the looks of it, and three, it seems like it is just Colton, the staff, and the few guards he has with him. Possibly ten, at most fifteen. For his next request, he asks if he can start taking morning runs around the grounds, citing that it clears his head, makes him work better. Jim and his friend follow him in a little cart. Ian acts like running away is the furthest thing from his mind while he quickly catalogs distance between his building and the main house, camera placement, guard rotations, and placement of any dense shrubbery he can use as cover.

—————

It takes three more weeks before Ian is ready to go. 

The day he decides to leave, he is returning to his room after his workday ended. Jim has taken to following him again, of his own accord it seems, ever since Ian got in his face. This evening, as Jim walks him back towards his room Ian strikes, stepping backward quickly to knock Jim off balance, pivoting on his heel, and swinging a mean right hook. Weeks of Ian being docile and doing what he has been told had given Jim a false sense of security so for Ian to erupt in a flurry of fists was the last thing he was expecting. Ian’s fist stuns Jim for a moment. Ian takes the advantage, driving his left fist into Jim’s stomach, and when the man bends forward, winded, he aims an elbow to the back of his head. Jim goes to his knees, then surges up catching Ian in the chest. Ian feels a sharp pain in his right side and realizes the knife Jim always carried strapped to his wrist has just been pushed to his side. Jim pushes Ian against the wall, his arm coming up on Ian’s throat, moving to crush his windpipe.

Ian brings his hands up, cupped shaped and claps them over Jim's ears. As Jim staggers back Ian grabs his shoulders, turns him till Jim’s back is snug up against Ian’s chest. 

“I’ve been waiting to do this for ages, you piece of shite. Your boss will be joining you shortly.”

He reaches up and quickly snaps Jim’s neck. His body falls to the floor. Ian steps back against the wall for one moment, breathing heavily and staring at Jim. He, of course, had trained for this, both during his candidacy as Galahad, and after by sparring with Harry often to keep his fighting skills in top form. Just because he sat behind a desk did not mean he did not want, or even need, the same skills an agent would have. It was not unknown for handlers to have to follow their agents into the field, and Ian had wanted to be ready.

On the other hand, though, Jim was his first kill. Sparring with Harry was one thing, looking at a man dead on the floor because of his hands is another. _Time enough for you to be a big girl’s blouse later_ , he thinks to himself. He quickly pats down the body, relieving it of a knife, its gun, zip ties and an extra ammo. He hears booted feet running towards him, so he palms the knife, kneels down, hands interlocked behind his head, in the opening of the hallway, facing the oncoming guard with Jim’s body to his left, hidden by the curve of the hall, to make it look like Jim has cowed him. The second guard that usually watches the outside door slows and bring his gun up, leveling at Ian. 

“Jim? You ok?”

His eyes narrow at Ian when he gets no answer.

“Don’t you fucking move, man,” he says as he keeps moving forward. Two more steps and he sees Jim’s body lying on the floor, head twisted. He falters giving Ian an opening. With a flick of his wrist, he sends the knife flying through the air and landing it right into the man’s eye socket. As the guard staggers, screaming in pain, Ian stands, yanks the knife out causing something more viscous than blood to spray on his face, pulls the man’s head back with his hair and calmly slices his throat open. 

The second one was much easier than the first. He takes the second gun as well, slipping the knife, which he cleaned off on Jim’s trousers, into his belt and putting one gun over each shoulder. Then he waits, crouched on the floor for one minute listening for anyone else coming before he darts down the hall.

Ian turns the corner into the labs when he hears movement outside the lab doors. It startles him for a moment because if someone is breaking _in_ that might either be good for him, or if they perceive him as one of Colton’s, it could be very bad. He hits the lights, turning the room dark, the only light now coming from the small slim windows that are around the room near the ceiling.

He presses against the wall and into the shadows, making himself a less conspicuous target and moves slowly, one rifle held up and parallel to his body. As he nears the doors leading to the offices one slowly opens and a man slides through. Ian stops moving and allows the man to walk by him. He is just about to keep sliding down the wall to the doors when his foot connects with a small piece of metal that goes tinkling over the floor. The man in front of him immediately swings around and levels his gun at Ian.

“Drop the weapon and move forward. I’ll only ask the once.”

Ian is frozen.

“Have it your way then.” Ian hears a safety click off.

“Harry?”

“Ian?

 


	5. Chapter 5

**One day after Ian is taken**

Harry is having a wonderful time in Dubai. This is one the things he loves best about being a spy, stepping into someone else’s shoes, becoming a whole different person. He thinks in another life he would have made a superb actor. Done _Pride or Prejudice_ , the ever-present leading man. He certainly has the hair for it. 

He spends his first night flirting and swaggering through an exclusive party Harold Rutherven had an invitation to. Well, he did after greasing the palms of the bouncers outside with enough money to buy their own bespoke suits. Twice.

The party is in a lavish villa which is composed of light expensive woods, sleek lines, modern furniture, and large glass doors that fold right into the wall opening each of the main rooms up to the center of the home which houses a pool lit from small, lotus shaped lights in the bottom. The breeze flows through the palm trees that stand sentry at each corner of the pool. Most of the actual guests are men from all areas of the world, and it is easy to see that the women who play in the pool, sit on the men’s laps, or circulate among small groups serving drinks are there for entertainment purposes only. 

Harry mingles, drinking with ease, accepting sticky, hand rolled joints when they are passed to him, and basically just ensuring that everyone sees there is a new British hotshot on the scene who is looking to make some new friends. He has taken the Kingsman issued pills that immediately diffuse any intoxicants in his system allowing him to play up his loosen inhibitions without actually loosening at all. He knows better than to think he will find out anything meaningful tonight. No, this week is just about getting his name around, along with his interests, mainly drugs and arms, and being seen. 

He ends the party with his arms slung around two very gorgeous women who burrow into his side and discussing how difficult it is becoming getting good product into the UK, particularly the opium the man, a Mr. Saab, has coming in from China. Harry promises to talk to his contacts in England. Mr. Saab, whose party it was, thanks him and wishes him the enjoyment of the two women that are currently wrapped around him.

“They are from my private stock, for occasions such as this. Although I could find you something else if these are not to your liking.”

“Oh, no, I think these two will be more than adequate. My thanks.”

“You must make use of one of the rooms in the house. Anything you need, you only have to ask.”

“I couldn’t impose like that…” Harry lets his voice trail off.

“I insist, please, it is my honor. The women will show you where to go.”

He claps his hands and the women stand, giggling and pulling Harry by his hands out of the large room the party was held in, through the halls and into one of the bedrooms. Harry spends the night fucking them, and as distasteful as Harry may have found it, Rutherven would not have been turned off by the subtle hint they are sex slaves. 

A knock sounds at his door the next morning. He disentangles himself from his bedmates and answers it in nothing but his pants. A man stands there with a tray. Harry moves to the side to let him in.

“Mr. Rutherven, Mr. Saab sends his regrets that he cannot greet you this morning but urgent business has called him away. He would like to invite you to enjoy your breakfast and let you know that there is a car waiting for you outside when you are finished ready to take you where ever it is that you might need to go. Mr. Saab would also like to invite you back two nights from now when he will be hosting another small gathering of people. He says your name will be on the guest list so do not give those men any more money, yes?”

“Thank you, tell him I will be honored to attend.”

The servant smiles and then heads over to the bed, clapping loudly and yelling at the women to get dressed and go back to their room. 

When he arrives back in his hotel room, Harry dials into the manor through his secure phone.

“Merlin, good morning. Well, it’s morning for me. Rutherven made some friends last night, so everything is going along quite swimmingly from my end.” Harry pauses to take a sip of his coffee, which he swears is so strong it could raise Jesus from the tomb. 

“Elyan is gone,” Merlin says, his northern accent more pronounced, probably from exhaustion.

“Pardon? Elyan’s gone where?”

“No, he is gone, Galahad. No one has seen him since he left work the night before you flew out. He never made it home from what we can tell. We’ve brought Angus here. There hasn’t been any money movement in his accounts, and nothing has been removed from his flat. I reviewed what I could of the CCTV footage between the shop and his flat, but there are huge gaps in coverage so I can’t even pinpoint where he disappeared, much less why.”

“I’ll be back on the next flight.”

“You certainly will not be. You have a mission, one that you will complete. There is nothing you can do here right now. As I said I don’t even have a starting point right now. I am trying to trace his path home from the shop when I can, and then I will be able to move forward.”

“What do you mean when you can?” Harry shoves his hand through his hair, pacing in the now stifling hotel room. “Is this not a priority?”

“Not as such, no.”

“Why the fuck not, Merlin? One of your own is gone!”

“You watch your fucking tone, boy. I don’t give a shit what golden calf you think you might be, but when you address me, you will do so respectfully or I will take you to the mats and remind you that I was an _agent_ before I was Merlin.”

“Yes, Christ, of course, you’re right. My apologies.” Harry says, chagrined.

“I know this is a little more _personal_ for you, and therefore I am going to just forget that outburst. I will inform you of exactly what is going on when you get back _after_ you complete your mission. Is that understood?”

“Merlin, I…”

“Say ’Yes, sir.’”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good lad. Now tell me more about who you impressed last night. Leave out any parts that involve your cock. Oh, and this time, wear your fucking ear piece. Elyan didn’t go through all the trouble of making them for you to leave it in your luggage next to your pants.”

Two nights later Harry is back at Saab’s villa, wearing his ear piece as directed, and a smart linen suit that was casual enough that he didn’t look like a prick, but not so casual he looked like some new money American. He made his rounds, greeting the people he had met before, allowing them to make further introductions, and trying to look like he was enjoying himself while inside he felt like he was screaming. He went to the bar next to the pool and got himself a drink. 

Ian had been gone at least three days now, and Harry had two more before he could go home and start his own search. He was sick with worry both about where in the fuck Ian was, but also why this was not a priority search. Harry had a sneaking suspicion it had something to do with Arthur. Ever since Chester took over the throne the classist little cunt was having a fine time pontificating on what he thought suitable agents and employees of Kingsman were.

“Is it the drink or the company that has you scowling like that?”

Harry looks up from his drink to see an alluring woman standing next to him and smiling. She is wearing cream colored, off the shoulder, almost sheer dress that concealed only what it must. Her brown skin seems to glow in the low lighting of the villa.

“It must have been the company since you weren’t standing next to me.” He takes her hand, brushing a kiss to her knuckles. “Harold Rutherven, but call me Harry.”

“Tessa DeLacroix. It’s nice to hear a voice from back home.”

Elaine’s voice comes over his ear piece. “I am running that name now, Galahad. Stand by.”

“Business or pleasure?” Harry asks, leaning against the bar.

“A little of both I would say, but in my line of work the two often mix.”

“And what line of work is that Ms. DeLacroix?”

“Tessa, please.” She smiled up at him, white teeth shining. “I really have to know you a little better than this to tell you that Harry. Quite a lot actually."

Elaine speaks again. “Apparently they do mix. She and her brother run a human tracking ring that has operations in almost every major city in the world. Looks like this might have turned into a honeypot Galahad.”

“Well,” Harry said, looping his arm around her waist, and beginning to walk to one of the unoccupied couches surrounding the pool, “we should get started on that.”

They spend the rest of the night talking until Tessa makes her apologies.

“Harry, as pleasurable as it has been speaking with you, I am afraid I have to leave. I have an early conference call with a partner and cannot miss it.”

“Can we see each other again? I am here for another two days and I would like it very much if we could.”

“Not here, I’m afraid. It really is all business and no pleasure for me for the rest of my stay, but if you would like, I am having a party in two weeks when I get back to London.” She pulls a card out from her clutch and writes an address and date on it. “Show this at the door.” She leans down and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, he can smell sandalwood and vanilla in her hair. “I look forward to continuing to get to know you, Harry.”

—————

Harry is back in London on schedule, and after a decidedly chilly debrief with Arthur, he is heading to Merlin’s office. He knocks once, practically standing on the balls of his feet in his eagerness to be admitted.

“Come.”

Harry walks in and closes the door, waiting for Merlin’s nod to sit. Once received he sits, straightens his trousers lest they crease, and looks expectantly at the man across from him. Merlin looks at him and then presses two buttons. Once makes the door lock behind Harry with a quiet snick, the other Harry has no idea.

“The second button puts a white noise barrier around my office so anyone who is listening in will hear nothing,” Merlin explains.

“Who do you think is listening in? We all work for the same people.”

“Exactly, and I can count on one hand how many of those little fucks I trust.”

Merlin reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out a bottle with two glasses. “I’m afraid I don’t have much to report regarding Ian. We know he left the shop the night you left for Dubai. I have looked on CCTV tapes NSY has, but as I said on the phone, there are a lot of gaps in the system. Ian can be seen entering and leaving the Tube at his normal stops, and then somewhere between his final stop and his flat he is gone. We have received no ransom demands, no offers of trade, nothing. We have no clue why he was taken or who by.”

Harry knocks his drink back in one go, puts the glass on the desk and nudges it towards Merlin who promptly refills it. 

“And why is this not a priority for Kingsman? Why do we not have an agent, or agents, out looking for him?” 

“Our most esteemed leader, Arthur, thinks that Ian just said fuck it and took off on his own. ‘Can’t trust the poor’ you know. He thinks Ian got a better offer, or he just got lazy, or something, but he definitely doesn’t believe that Ian has any worth as a kidnap victim.”

“I was under the impression you were training him as your second.”

“I am, but it is not common knowledge. I told Arthur this, I told him about the advances he had made in our tech for the agents such as the earpiece, but Arthur just said that I should be more careful in whom I place my trust. If I knew someone else would take up the search if I were gone I would have put Arthur’s fountain pen clean through his skull.”

“Well, I am back now. I can start looking into things.”

“No, you can’t. Tessa DeLacroix is your priority right now. Besides you are too close to this, to him, to be objective. And before you ask, yes I know about whatever it is that is going on with you, and if anyone could pull their heads out of their arses they would as well. However, I also know Ian was not comfortable with it being known, so I kept my mouth shut out of respect for him, which I will continue to do.”

“I still think I can be doing something.”

“Yes, you can be doing what you’re told, which right now is pursuing Tessa. Arthur wants that trafficking ring brought down. If you start poking about Arthur will notice, shut it down, and that will mean no one is looking for him. Meanwhile, if I have a few people who fly under the radar doing some snooping for me regarding Ian, it’s nobody’s business but my own.”

“You’ll at least keep me informed?” 

“Of course. Now, regarding Harold Rutherven, we can’t have him living in your house. A safe house has been set up to look as though you have lived there for quite some time and it has been seeded with just enough evidence of your own nefarious doings to tempt her. Your things that you will need have already been moved there, your dog will be keeping Angus company in the kennels, and you will be living in that house for the foreseeable future. We put together a larger file on Rutherven as this mission is turning out to be a little more in-depth than originally thought.”

“And my nefarious doings?” 

“All in the file. I suggest you memorize it and leave it here before you go home to your new residence. Once you leave the shop, you will be Rutherven twenty-four hours a day. There is a small room in the basement that is equipped with the same white noise mechanism as my office. You will be able to check in once a day, if possible, with me or my staff. If there is something important I need you to know I’ll get it to you. You won’t be wearing your earpiece, you’re going in almost completely dark.”

“Why does Arthur care so much about a trafficking ring, no matter how large it is?”

“Apparently, not only does Tessa’s workers entertain their owners or her clients, they also are tasked with finding out very sensitive information from the high ranking officials they are serving. Tessa is building quite the second business on government secrets, ones that could prove highly problematic down the road. That’s the official story anyway, I personally think there might be some very embarrassing things about people Arthur counts as friends floating around. He’s a fucking snake, he is. One of these days it’s going to get him killed. 

“Plus her hands are starting to get grabby on weapon trading, moving arms to terrorist groups and the like, which is something Kingsman definitely has an interest in. Between her information gathering and the weapons, she is poised to be a very dangerous person indeed. We would like to take her, and some of the people under her, down quickly. Eyes open, Galahad. You will need to be not only seducing her, but also keeping track of all the major players on the London board. We will need names, times, dates, etc. I will do what I can to facilitate your cover when needed.”

Harry nods and stands to leave. He stops just as he is about to open the door and turns back to Merlin. “He didn’t fuck off someplace, Merlin, he wouldn’t have.”

“I know that, and that’s why we are going to find him.”

—————

Harry was, for once in his damn life, right on time for Tessa’s party. Dressed in a deep navy tux, so dark it was almost black, his hair casually tousled and the top few buttons of his shirt unbuttoned. Casual playboy, that was him. Not a fucking care in the world. Certainly not a care about the man he loves being in the wind. 

After passing the card he was given smoothly to the man at the door, he brought himself into character and entered the main room. There are thirty or so people milling about, drinks in hand, fake smiles plastered on faces that have seen more cosmetic work than the Sistine Chapel ceiling. The flat, whether or not it is Tessa’s, is lovely. Opulent without being crass, tastefully decorated with artwork on the walls and sumptuous furnishings. It gave the impression of having money without being overly concerned with showing it off. 

“Harry, you made it!” Tessa’s voice calls out.

He turns towards her, allowing a smile that is pure joy at her presence bloom on his face. He takes her hand, kissing it. He grudgingly admits that she does look lovely in a bright blue, strapless dress that shimmers in the low lighting. One single, but large, diamond adorns her throat while others dangle from her ears, accentuating her neck. 

“My dear, as if I would have been anywhere else tonight.”

“Come, let me introduce you around.”

“Of course,” he replies, tucking her smaller hand in the crook of his arm. 

As they circle the room she introduces him to people whose names he has come across within Kingsman files, and others he has not, but is committing to memory to write down at home later. Harry, of course, is thrilled with these people and spends the night alternating between showering Tessa with attention and forming relationships his cover will need as time goes on. 

After a few hours, Tessa pulls him to one of the tables and sits on his lap. He presses kisses into her arm.

“So, Harry, are you enjoying yourself? Do you find the company intriguing?”

“You I find mesmerizing, darling, and the people you introduced me to tonight are the ones I can see being very influential friends. Thank you for inviting me.”

She smiles down at him. “I have been thinking of you since we last saw each other, hoping that perhaps, if you did decide to come tonight, we could continue to get to know each other.”

“Anything in particular you had in mind?”

She stands, pulling him up with her. “Follow me.”

She pulls him through a door that leads into a pantry. There is just enough room for them to stand up in it. She throws her arms around his neck and presses close to him. He dips down and kisses her, chastely at first, running his hands over her hips and up her sides, his thumbs stroking the sides of her breasts. Her tongue moves against his lips and he allows her in, the kiss deepening. One of his hands comes up to her neck so he can position her head where he wants it before he takes control kiss. She moans into his mouth as he moves his mouth from hers down to her neck, kissing and nipping softly at her skin. Her hands lower to her hips to begin inching her dress up. One of her stiletto clad heels hits the wall behind him and as soon as she has her balance, the other one joins it on the other side of his hips. He has to admire her muscle control. He pulls back from her and looks down, the dress is pulled up far enough for him to realize that she has nothing on underneath. He sinks to his knees. When Tessa comes he is positive the entire party hears it. 

After that night they are all but inseparable, but Harry knows, for once, he is the arm candy for this mission. He accompanies Tessa to parties and meetings, listening to her discuss product and trade routes. He shows her that he can be trusted and that nothing she has her fingers in surprises him. And it works, because before long he is joining in the conversations, offering his opinion on terms being negotiated, offering his help in moving whatever needs to be moved along indirect channels. Thanks to Merlin, and his once a day check in’s he is able to move a small cache of arms and some women for Tessa and her friends. Pity they happened to get confiscated at the border of the destination country. 

He and Tessa spend most days at her flat which suits Harry fine. One night, though, she is adamant that they go to his. He expects that she is planning on planting bugs, cameras, or both, so he makes sure he gives her plenty of time out of his sight both while he is cooking dinner and later when she goes upstairs to “relax in the bath.” He didn’t break out of character before he suspected cameras had been planted, so he certainly won’t now, even when he is alone. Of course, now he will have to remember to bring something up from the basement when he checks in with Merlin or goes down there to make notations in his book.

“Harry,” Tessa calls down to him, “would you come wash my back for me?”

“Be there in a moment, darling,” he calls. He is inordinately glad that this is a safe house and not his actual home. The thought of having to live somewhere where this woman had been makes his skin crawl. 

That night as they fuck, he tells her he loves her, that she is perfect for him, and later when she is lying in his arms, sated and happy, she asks if he would consider becoming even more involved with her business, perhaps taking meetings for her so she can increase the amount of business she is doing. She has a friend she says, an American, who wants to start moving some of his arms deals to the UK. She will handle him herself, but if he could take over talks with Saab regarding the women he is procuring for her, she would be most grateful. She would also see if she could get her American friend to start working with him personally since Harry wanted in on arms dealing as well. Perhaps, after a while, he could run one side, while she ran the other. 

Harry cannot believe his luck. He is exactly where Merlin and he wanted him to be and he didn’t even have to ask.

“Anything for you, dearest. It would be an honor.”

He proposes a month later, which she accepts with shining eyes, although personally, he thinks it’s actually the gleam from the enormous fucking rock he bought. Merlin made sure to tell him that it better come back or it will be taken out of his pay slips. Not slip, but slips, as in plural. They waste no time and are married in two weeks. Tessa adores him and Harry adores her. They are literally partners in crime. 

Two months into the marriage, Harry can feel it coming to an end. He has names, connections, and trade routes mapped out in his notes. He has the passwords to all of Tessa’s personal files. He has his own bodyguard for fuck’s sake. He is perfectly inserted into her life and perfectly positioned to take her down. 

During his time with Tessa Ian has not been found. No ransom demand came and if Ian had just fucked off, he was living rough with no money as his accounts stay untouched. The cameras Merlin had set up in his flat never show any movement. It’s like he vanished off the face of the earth. Harry is ready to wrap this up. He is owed time off from being in deep cover for so long and he intends to use it to find Ian. Ian, who the thought of he has had to keep tightly locked away for these four months lest he go rogue and tear England apart looking for him. The few times he has allowed himself to think of him, how much he misses the man has almost brought him to his knees.

He and Merlin make a plan to end the mission in one week. Under the guise of getting a new suit while Tessa is shopping, they plan the end down to the smallest detail, meticulously deciding on who will be involved, where it will happen, and how it will happen. Harry, of course, will have to be “taken” as well so his cover is not compromised, but he is prepared to get a little banged up in the scuffle that is sure to ensue.

The mission has been easier than he could have dreamed. He should have known that everything was going to go spectacularly to shit the very next chance it got.

—————

“Harry,” Tessa says, looping her arms around his neck, “kiss me.”

“With pleasure, dearest.” Harry bends, slipping his lips over hers in a firm, closed mouth kiss. He pulls back and smiles at her. “What was that for,” he asks, or tries to. It really comes out more like “wazzat fr.” His lips are feeling odd, almost cold, and he does not have full control over them. The chill creeps up his face and down his neck, a full body rub with menthol. His knees buckle and he stares up at Tessa who is carefully wiping her lips off.

“Paralytic lipstick, _dearest_ ,” she sneers. 

Black.

He comes to still in Tessa’s bedroom. He is, as usual, tied to a chair while Tessa perches at the end of her bed, filing her nails. 

“What is this about, darling? Why are you doing this?”

She keeps filing for a moment, inspects them, gives one last pass and then blows them off. She glares at him. “Really? Still playing the game?”

“What game? I have no clue what you are talking about.”

“You do know what I am talking about, Harry Hart, or should I say, _Galahad_?”

Harry’s eyes widen before he can stop them.

“I’ve known who you are since the minute I laid eyes on you. I was sent for you personally, and you fell face first into it. Or me. Whichever.”

“Who sent you for me?”

“My American friend I mentioned, you remember him, don’t you? Well, it seems you and he have a couple of mutual friends as well. Gwendolyn and Ian.” She smirks at him, looks down at her nails again, and begins sharpening their points.

“Gwendolyn, the tech? That’s how you found out about us, about Ian?”

“She was ever so pissed when she got fired and she went running to her Daddy’s friend in the States, hoping he would help her get revenge. She told him, and through him, me, all about Kingsman and what lovely tech they are putting out. Put Ian’s name right in his ear, said he could build Colton things that would make his business run so much better. Even told us about you and him, the worst kept secret in Kingsman apparently, and that you would make an excellent pressure point to use against him if he was uncooperative.”

“That little bitch,” Harry mutters. 

“If it makes you feel any better, I sold her to some minor royalty in some small country. The name escapes me now.”

Harry takes two deep breaths, it wouldn’t do to lose his composure now _Would. Not. Do._ His voice is calm. “What about Ian?”

“Yes, what about him, hmm? Does your little fag boyfriend know you like pussy just as much as you apparently like cock? Because, baby, you like it a lot. I’ve been with men who were in it for the job, but no matter what you might have thought about me, you _loved_ fucking me.”

Harry releases the tiny steel knife that is embedded in his cufflink and begins sawing at the ropes around his wrist. She was a bit too sure of herself when she secured him, tying only his hands. She doesn’t even have her bodyguards in the room, although he’d bet his life they are right outside the door. 

“So what was the point of this? I obviously haven’t been tortured in front of him or had anything done to me that would cause him to work for this Colton.”

“Darling, you are pretty, but you’re an idiot. We decided that torturing you would just be _boring_. No, we used _you_ to torture _him_. You and I have been being taped from the moment we met. Ian has seen you with me in every sense of the word, flirting with me, fucking me, _proposing_ to me. Colton said he played one of the videos of you and I in bed on repeat all night to show Ian that you were not coming, at least not for him. Not anymore. Then after seeing you propose, he started working for Colton. Been a docile little lamb ever since. Bloody hell, Colton even gave him his own boy to fuck. Which he did. I wonder whose arse was tighter?”

Harry is almost through the rope. He ignores the burning feeling in his gut at the thought of Ian with another man. 

“And where does that leave us?”

She pulls a gun out, silencer attached to the barrel. “It’s simple. You are going to call into your little tailor shop and tell them that you will not be coming back. You will be joining your lovely wife permanently, and that should they come for you, or by extension me, we will tell the entire world about them.”

“And then?”

“And then you can actually join with me or I can put a bullet through that pretty face of yours. I do hope you choose option number one though, you are an excellent fuck. I’d hate to see all that go to waste.”

Harry sighs, defeated. “Bring me the phone.”

Tessa brings the cordless over and dials the number he gives her. She holds it to his right ear.

“Customer complaints?”

“This is Galahad requesting connection to Merlin, security code Z65B4.”

“One moment sir.”

There is a clicking noise and Merlin comes on the line. “Harry, what in the bloody hell are you calling me for now?”

“Mordred protocol,” Harry says, then turns and sinks his teeth into the vulnerable underside of Tessa’s wrist and rips. He spits. There is blood in his teeth.

She cries out, dropping the phone, and stupidly, the gun in order to put her hand over the bleeding wound Harry had left. Harry stands, the ropes falling to the floor as the two guards kick the doors open. Harry drops down, one knee on the floor, picks up the gun, turns, and fires one bullet each into each of the guard’s heads. 

He is moving to stand when he feels a sharp pain in his left shoulder, he looks back and sees Tessa’s steel nail file sticking out of him and her coming at him, her nails out. He reaches back, pulls the file out, turning it in his hand to stab into to her outer thigh. She drops to the floor. 

Once she is down, Harry drives a knee into her back and uses her hair to drive her head into the floor, stunning her. He does it twice, just to make sure it took, and then uses the ropes to tie her hands behind her. 

“Don’t move, darling, I’ll be right back.”

He quickly goes to the kitchen and grabs the sharpest knife he can find and a wooden cutting board. He hurries back to her. While he had been gone she had been inch-worming across the floor towards the guards, most likely planning on getting one of the guns they had, though how’d she use it with bound hands is a mystery.

“Tessa, dearest,” he tuts, “I told you not to move.” He moves her back, keeping her on her stomach and lays the cutting board on the small of her back. He then forces her left hand flat on it. “Now you are going to tell me where Ian is or I start removing your fingers one joint at a time. If you still haven’t told me where he is by the time I run out of fingers, we will move on to your toes. In fact, there are so many body parts I can carve away causing immense pain, yet not allowing you to bleed out, so really, darling, take as long as you need.”

He lays the knife against the first joint of her pinky. “Where is Ian?”

She says nothing. He cuts the tip of her pinky off. She screams.

“Thank god you soundproofed the flat.” He strokes her hair. “Sweetheart, you sound as if I am killing you. If I am killing you, I assure you that you will know it. You have taken someone I love very much. Allowed him to believe I abandoned him. Made him believe that I did not care. I promise you, this is letting you off easy. Now, again, where is Ian?”

She laughs, a wet gurgling sound. “You can go fuck yourself. You pretend to be a knight, a savior. You’re just as big of a monster as I am.”

“That may be true, but it was not an answer.” He cuts again. She screams and drums her feet against the carpet.

He removes her pinky and ring finger (pocketing that damn ring, he hopes Merlin can get the blood off of it) before she tells him. He hears the front door fly open down stairs. 

“Galahad?” 

“Up here, Gareth. Just finishing up with my wife. Be a good chap and call Merlin back. Tell him I know where Ian is. We will assemble a team and go tonight. Oh, and we will need a cleanup crew here.”

“You fucking faggot, go rescue your fuck toy then. I should have shot you the minute I pulled the gun.”

“Unfortunately for you, I am not making the same mistake.” Harry picks up the gun once more and puts the barrel against the base of Tessa’s skull. “You were an absolutely dreadful shag, dear,” he whispers into her ear, “I would have rather fucked a corpse.” 

He pulls the trigger. 

—————

Gareth, Tristan, Bors, and Harry arrive at the estate where Tessa said Ian was being held two hours after Harry blew his Tessa brains out of the front of her face. Had getting Ian back been not his number one priority, or if he would have trusted anyone to do it but him, he would have dragged it out, not only for Ian, but for all those people whose lives were a daily hell because of her. 

It is just twilight when they arrive, the sky bruised with purples and yellows, just giving them enough light to see and enough darkness to hide them from anyone gazing out into the grounds. They make a quick sweep of the area. There is the main house, stables, and a smaller building that has power lines running to it. If he is not in the main house, Harry will bet his Aunt’s prized Faberge Egg that Ian is in there. 

“Plan, Galahad?” Tristan asks once they are back at the starting point. 

Harry wants to go in the smaller building, grab Ian and run, but he knows that that is not the smartest option. He _knows_ it, but that doesn’t mean he as to _like_ it.

“I think all four of us should go into the main house. The stables, as we saw, are of little consequence, and the building in the back is most likely where they are holding Elyan. However, if we hit that building first, it is more than likely we will need to not only deal with who ever is in there but the reinforcements they could call from the main house. We secure the house, search it, and move on from there.”

Bors is patting his pockets like a man looking for his keys and wallet.

“Problem, Bors?

“No, I was just counting the grenades I have. I have ten on me, I should be okay.”

“Good god, man _,_ ” Tristan mutters.

Harry doesn’t know whether to be comforted by that or horrified. 

Harry pulls his guns from the double holster on his back. “Once more into the breach, gentlemen.”

Harry is right about the house, it is well guarded. All four of them scatter throughout house to work through all of the men. A couple of Bors grenades help out tremendously as much as Harry does not want to admit it. Forty-five minutes later they are in a room with the last of the guards dead on the floor and one portly American with his hands stretched placating in front of him. 

“It would seem we need no introduction, Mr…. Colton, was it? Tessa said you knew all about us.”

“Now, we can all be friends here, can’t we y’all? I mean, I'm just a business man. Certainly we can find our way to some sort of a friendly agreement.”

Harry walks up to the man and sticks his gun underneath Colton’s soft chin.

“I am going to ask you the same thing I asked Tessa. Where is Ian? And do not say you don’t know, Tessa tried not telling me and she lost two fingers and the top front half of her face because of it.”

“He’s in the building out back,” Colton immediately answers.

“Good, smarter than she was at any rate. And how many men are with him,” Harry asks as he hears Tristan pull out his knife and begin dragging it across his wet stone.

“Two.” Harry flicks his safety off. “Two, I swear on my momma’s grave.”

Harry flicks the safety back on.

“Well, now that that is out of the way, why don’t y’all go and get your boy back and I will just head back to the States, keep my nose in my own business. Y’all will never hear from me again.”

“It’s a distinct possibility that _no one_ will ever hear from you again, but before that, the gentlemen behind me wish to have a few words with you. Not only did you take one of ours, you sold another into the sex trade even if she was a traitorous harpy.”

Harry drops his gun and turns to the other agents. “I’ll leave you to it, but don’t kill him until you have every scrap of information out of him that you can get, or better yet, we can bring him to the manor and see what Ywaine can get out of him. It would be a nice present for him but I’ll leave that up to you. If you will excuse me, I am going to go fetch Elyan. I’ll radio when I have him.”

The agents move forward as he walks away from Colton. He is just at the door when the sharp tang of urine fills the room. As he walks out he hears Gareth say, “Fucking hell, he fucking pissed himself. He’s not going in my plane like this.”

“When the hell did it become _your_ plane?” Tristan shoots back.

“When I…” The door shuts behind Harry.

Now that he knew where Ian was being kept he has to keep himself from running headlong into the building. He paces himself, moving with purpose but always listening and keeping an eye out for a stray guard they might have missed. 

The door to the building is locked, easily picked by Harry, and within seconds he is in the main room of the building. It was small with a small table and a chair, where one of the guards sat usually he supposed, but no one sat there now. They must both be with Ian then.

He moves to the door directly in front of him and steps through it, gun out and walking slowly in the darkened room. He can see the second door on the far wall. 

He makes it to the middle of the room when he hears a small piece of metal roll across the floor. He immediately turns, gun training instantly on the man in the shadows he missed before.

“Drop the weapon and move forward. I’ll only ask the once.” 

The man in the shadows does not move, his gun does not drop.

“Have it your way then.”

“Harry?”

Harry’s heart stutters in his chest, stopping for one beat.

“Ian?”

When Ian steps into the light, or what there is of it, Harry can see the differences in him. He has lost weight during the months he has been gone. His face, which was always handsome, but severe, is gaunt. His eyes just stare at Harry as if he is unsure of who he is seeing. 

Harry wants to run to him immediately, throw his arms around him and see if the spot behind his ear still smells the same as Harry remembers.

But he doesn’t. 

Instead, he contents himself with fussing over Ian, looking for wounds. He finds the stab wound in Ian’s side but it is impossible to tell how deep it is. They need to get to the plane so Harry can tend to him.

He calls the rest of the team, lets them know that he has Ian and they are heading for the plane. 

“Copy Galahad, Gareth and I are taking this fat fuck back to Ywaine, a present for him.” Behind Tristan’s voice, Harry can hear the muffled boom of explosions. “Bors will be along,” Tristan sighs an immensely put upon sigh, “shortly.”

—————

“Jesus, Ian, is that really you?” 

Harry rushes over and starts putting his hands all over him. Ian just stares at him, hardly believing what he is seeing.

“Ian, are you hurt? Is this your blood?” Ian hisses when Harry’s hand hits the wound in his side. “Fuck, you’ve been stabbed, do you know how deep?” Harry shakes him. “Fucking answer me, you fucking tit.”

“You came for me.” Ian sputters out, still staring at Harry.

“What do you mean, of course, I came for you. My god, of course I did, _we_ did. Tristan, Gareth, and Bors are with your friend Colton. Come on, we need to get you out.” Harry touches his ear. “Galahad has Elyan, heading to the extraction point.” He listens for a moment. “Finish your fun, Bors, and let’s go home.”

They get to the plane with very little issue. Bors places the finishing touches on the whole thing by bringing the building and house to the ground with a few well-placed bombs. All told they are out and in the air in thirty minutes. 

Ian watches Harry go about stitching the wound to hold until they can get back to medical. 

Almost five months he has been there, work room to bedroom to work room to bedroom, playing the good boy, and then he’s free in a matter of minutes. He can’t seem to process anything.

Harry speaks to him, Ian doesn’t respond. For months he has not spoken to anyone besides Colton, his guards, and that man they left for him. Months of watching every word he says at all times. Now that he can speak freely all the words seem to bottleneck in his throat. 

After Harry finishes fussing over him, he sits next to Ian. He pretends to not see the three times Harry goes to reach for Ian’s hand but stops himself. Ian isn’t sure how he feels about that.

Then he sees the glint of gold that lies on Harrys left ring finger. He knows how he feels about that. He feels nothing.

Once landed at the manor, Ian is rushed into medical like he has a leg severed. He was lucky, the knife didn’t go in too deep and it didn’t hit anything important. They sew him back up, tutting over Harry’s unsteady stitching, give him a bottle of pain killers, some antibiotics, and release him. 

He still isn’t ready to speak to Harry, as much as he wants to, so he sneaks down to the kennels, and gets Angus. Before leaving the manor, he stops by to see Merlin.

Merlin shakes his hand and Ian stands there awkwardly. “I want you to take a few days off, Elyan. Get your head straight. You might want to see out therapist.” Ian nods once and leaves. He won’t be seeing the therapist, he’ll work it out himself.

His flat is dusty inside, having not been lived in for months, but it’s home. He leaves all the lights he can off, after that white room with its lights constantly on, he needs the sanctuary darkness gives. He quickly undresses and showers, being careful of his stitches. He crawls into his bed and doesn’t scold Angus when he joins him, instead he burying his face in the dog's fur. 

The next morning there is a note and a bag of groceries sitting on his counter. 

_Ian,_

_Pardon my intrusion but everything you might have had that could be considered edible went off weeks ago so I took the liberty of bringing something by. You were sleeping so soundly I didn’t have the heart to wake you. And, well, I am assuming since you left last night without speaking to me, you need some time alone, time to reacclimatize as it were. This is something I understand intimately so I will bugger off until you call for me. But, please call me. You have no idea how much I have missed you._

_Since Merlin told you to take a few days off, I was able to beg off your debrief by a few days so you are not expected in until next week, but Arthur wants you bright and early Monday morning, the fucking prick._

_Yours, always,_

_HRH, III_

Ian makes himself some breakfast from the groceries Harry had left and puts the rest away. He showers again, just for the novelty of doing so in his own home, and then finds himself sitting on the couch doing nothing.

The silence is oppressive, too much like the silence that surrounded him at all times while he was with Colton. He has to get out, so after clipping on Angus’ leash, they leave. For a while he just wanders, enjoying the bustle of London again, getting used to people brushing up against him, getting in his personal space, making himself allow it. He gets tea at his favorite tea shop, visits the used bookstore he hides in when he doesn’t want to be found. The owner is thrilled to see him after what Ian explains was a long work assignment. He leaves with the books the man saved for him.

He is not surprised when he finds himself in front of Harry’s house. He wants so badly to knock but he knows if that woman is in there, _Tessa_ , he must use her name, Tessa. If Tessa is in there and he has to speak to her, he might go mad. 

He is about to turn away when he sees Harry open the door.

“For fuck's sake, Ian, get in here before the neighbors see some strange bald man lurking about in the shrubbery.” 

Ian trudges up the walk, already regretting the fact he didn’t get away before Harry saw him. He braces himself for the introductions, but Harry just ushers him in, closes the door behind him, and heads to the kitchen. Angus runs off in search of Mr. Pickle.

“Tea,” he calls to Ian, “or something stronger?”

“I don’t…” Ian starts, looking around desperately for the signs of someone else in the house. 

“Something stronger then,” Harry says coming into the living room with a bottle of whiskey. He points at the couch. “Sit.”

Ian does.

Harry hands him a glass (no ring today) with more than a socially acceptable amount of alcohol in it and then pours himself a matching one before sitting on the other end of the couch.

“Since you came here I will consider my offer to give you space unneeded, which means I fully expect you to explain why you fucked off last night.”

“I didn’t want to intrude.”

“You didn’t want to intrude? What does that even fucking mean? Intrude on what? God, Ian, you’ve been gone for five months. What did you think I was doing during that time, having a holiday?”

“I am fully aware of that, Harry, I was fucking there remember?” Ian knocks back half his drink in one go, his hands squeezing the glass so hard he fancies he can hear it cracking. “Jesus. I know exactly what you’ve been doing, or _who_ you have been doing.” His voice is mean and jealous and he hates the sound of it. He wants to curl up and put his head on Harry’s cardigan covered stomach and breathe in his cologne and know he is home and not still in that fucking bright room. 

“We’ve been looking for you.”

“Really, did looking for me involve sticking your cock into _Tessa_ , playing house with her, _proposing_ to her for fuck's sake?”

Harry rises to his feet quickly and runs his hands through his hair. He pinches the bridge of his nose as he walks towards the bottle he left on the sideboard. Ian stands as well, following him because he can’t stop himself.

“Because it looks to me like you were having a fine time without me.”

Harry slams his glass down.

“Goddamn it, Ian! Fucking her was doing my job, it didn’t mean I wasn’t looking for you.”

Ian snorts, mutters, “It looked like it. I must have been lost somewhere in her vagina.”

“Are you twelve?”

Ian scowls at him over the rims of his glasses.

“Will you listen to me, or are you going to mutter and stamp your foot like a child?”

“Fine. Pour me another one.”

They sit back down like civilized adults. Harry tells him about the party in Dubai, about the trafficking ring, and about the deep cover assignment he had to undertake with Tessa. He tells him how Arthur thought Ian had just fucked off without so much as two fingers on his way out. 

“Merlin and I, well mostly Merlin, as I had to stick close by Tessa, were doing everything we could to find you, but it was like you had just fallen off the face of the earth. I had no clue, nor did he, that Tessa and Colton were working together to keep me occupied and convince you that Kingsman, that I, had turned our backs on you. I had already put in for my month mandatory leave following my assignment and I was going to use it to find you no matter what it took. 

“As soon as Tessa told me what was going on, my priority was you. I came straight to where you were, I don’t even think Arthur knew where I and the others were until we were already in the air.” Harry reaches out and takes his hand. “There was nothing that could have kept me from you at that moment.”

Ian looks down at Harry’s fingers linked through his.

“And Tessa?”

“Missing a few fingers and most of her face. I controlled myself adequately under the circumstances I think.”

Ian snorts. “Yes,” he says, his voice thick, “I am sure you did.” He swallows. “So, the fucking, the proposal, the marriage, it was all part of the mission?”

“Of course it was part of the mission. She was never the person I love, you should know that. And it certainly wasn’t a real marriage, although it did add a little something the Rutherven’s backstory. I’m sure it will come in handy in the long run.”

“So glad I could be of service then,” Ian says, mood darkening again. 

“Ian, you know what I mean.”

Ian sighs, his breath catching in his chest, and his hand grips Harry’s tighter. “It was horrible seeing you with her. I hated her. I think, in a small way, I hated you.” He looks up into Harry’s face. Harry stares back trying to keep his face blank, and at least to Ian’s eyes, failing miserably.

“So,” Harry’s hand is stiff in his, “do you still? Hate me?”

“No, Harry. I didn’t know she was a mark. I came here after seeing that ring on your hand last night knowing full well I may have to come face to face with your wife. I still came knowing that because after not seeing you all those months that I was gone, I wouldn’t feel like I was really home until I was in your arms, even if it was a hug amongst friends.”

“You fucking idiot,” Harry says as he pulls Ian over to him. Ian lands between Harry’s legs, his upper body supported by Harry’s chest, his face buried in his soft cardigan. Harry smells of whiskey, his obscenely expensive cologne, and the faint scent of gun oil an agent can never get rid of. It is the scent of home he lost in that sterile white room. It is that that is his undoing. 

Finally, after months of staying strong, moving forward, always planning, Ian allows himself to be still, to cry, and relax into Harry’s arms. Harry holds him as he sobs, murmuring nonsense, or if it’s not, Ian is not in a fit state to interpret anything, running his hands over Ian’s back, sides and arms. Over and over and over Harry does this until Ian quiets and falls asleep on top of him. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had time to get Chapter 6 & 7 ready before I go out of town tomorrow, so here they are. The remaining four should be posted over the weekend.

When they wake it is the dark half of twilight, the sky purple but not quite black yet. Ian has a headache and his mouth feels glued shut. He gently sits up. He can feel his face getting red and is about to apologize for such a display when Harry simply kisses him on his forehead.  

“Don’t start being a twat now, Ian, or I shall forget why I ever missed you to begin with.” Harry turns and rummages through the drawer of the table that sits under his phone, “Indian?”

“God, no,” Ian answers. “Indian gives you the worst gas. I’ll be damned if I am going to sit around here all night and listen to not only the dogs fart, but you as well. Get Chinese.”

“Oh, so you planned on sitting around here all night? Presumptuous little prick.” Harry smiles so widely the skin around his eyes crinkle and for a moment Ian can see what he will look like in thirty years, if he lives that long. Ian smiles back.

“Dandy.”

“Prude.”

“Functioning alcoholic.”

“We all need a hobby, dear,” Harry says, raising his nose.

As they eat, Ian tells Harry what is was like for him those months with Colton. The isolation, that fucking room that was so white and sterile Ian swears it still burns behind his eyes when he shuts them, how he did do work for Colton, but only enough to keep his head on his shoulders.

“The man is not as stupid as he plays at, Harry,” Ian says, punctuating his words with his chopsticks. “It was getting harder and harder to fool him.”

“I am sure he is not, which is why we brought him back for Ywaine.”

Ian shudders. “Fuck, I almost feel sorry for him.”

“Don’t waste your time. It’s been over twenty-four hours since he has had Colton. I am sure that every scrap of information he could possibly possess has been cut from him, so to speak, plus some for funsies, and the body has already been disposed of. Good fucking riddance.”

After they finish, they sit side by side on the floor, a dog in each lap and a whiskey in each of their hands. Harry fills the silence, which Ian is grateful for, with the gossip he has missed at Kingsman. He laughs where he is supposed to but mostly he is content just to sit, letting Angus’ weight in his lap ground him and Harry’s voice wash over him.

“Ian, are you even listening to me?”

“Harry, I stopped listening to you the moment you said hello to me in the dorms. You were just too fucking blind to see it.”

“You should be glad I was, your life would be dreadfully dull without me.”

“Quiet, I believe the word you are looking for is quiet. Possibly even relaxing.”

“Semantics. Come on now, up you get. It’s time for bed. I just aired the guest out last night.”

“No, I’ll head home. Surely after those months with Tessa, living up her arse, you could do with some quiet.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s after eleven. You’ll fall asleep on the tube and end up in Cardiff.”

“I am sure I can find my way back to my own fucking flat,” Ian says, the alcohol and exhaustion making him cantankerous. 

“Will you have me say it then? Fine, I would feel better if you would stay over. I would like to know you are close by.”

“Far be it from me to disappoint you.” He clicks his fingers. “Angus, wee rat dog,” Angus and Mr. Pickle look up at him. He snaps his finger and points. “Bed.” The dogs immediately curl up together on the huge cushion Harry keeps for them when Angus visits.

“Wee rat dog? And how the hell did you do that.”

“It’s called training, Harry. Same thing I have been doing to you since I met you, or did you think it was your idea for me to sleep over?”

“I should have left you with Colton,” Harry mutters. 

They walk up the stairs together and Ian stops outside the guest door. 

“You’ll find everything you need in the wardrobe and loo. Good night, Ian.” Harry reaches out as if to grab his shoulder and then pulls him into a hug. 

Ian hugs back. “Good night, Harry.”

Ian gets ready for bed, stripping down and putting on the soft pajama bottoms he finds in the drawer, but he cannot settle. He can feel Harry across and down the hall, pulling his attention like a compass to true north. 

It is a bad idea. 

It is a fucking fantastic idea. 

He debates for five minutes and gets up. He walks silently down the hall and opens Harry’s door. Harry flips the covers back.

“Get in here, you arse.”

Ian slides in and Harry turns on his side, clad only in his boxers, his back to Ian. Ian immediately wraps himself around Harry, enjoying the skin on skin contact. The first he has had since he left. He barely touched the man Colton sent him except with his cock. Harry wiggles back, closer, a pleased sound coming from the back of his throat. Ian’s nose finds the short soft hairs of Harry’s nape, he breathes in once and then places his lips there. Harry shudders minutely in his arms.

“Ian,” Harry murmurs, turning to face him. “I don’t know…”

“Neither do I, but right now I could really give a fuck,” Ian replies and kisses him. 

He tries to keep it sweet. He thought about all the ways he and Harry could reunite, when, _if_ , he ever got to come home. His favorite was him spending hours relearning Harry’s body, watching Harry lose himself one sensation at a time.

However, the kiss doesn’t stay sweet. Harry pulls Ian on top of him and runs his hands down Ian’s chest, nails scraping through his chest hair and over his nipples, moving down his sides and under the elastic waist of the pajama pants he is wearing. Ian thinks that sounds like an excellent idea. He gets off the bed to pull them off and then do the same with Harry’s boxers.

He lays back down between Harry’s legs, a deep groan coming from deep in his throat as their cocks slide side by side. Harry is a flame beneath him, skin hot and soft, his legs coming up around Ian’s waist as the kiss and move together. 

“Harry, fuck, missed you.”

“I missed you as well, so much,” Harry answers, his large hands wrapped around Ian’s arse, encouraging him to thrust harder, the sweat from their bodies slicking the way. 

Ian’s hand flies out to the table on the right side of the bed, blindly rummaging through it while never once taking his lips from Harry’s.

“I want to fuck you, Harry. I need to. Please, say I can.”

“Yes, Ian. God, anything.”

Ian finds the lube and condoms. He sits up, pours some of the liquid over his fingers and then presses them against Harry. He circles Harry’s hole gently, only pushing in when Harry is starting to make minute rolls of his hips trying to catch Ian’s fingers. He presses one in and watches Harry relax, going boneless into the mattress. He soon adds a second, moving to a third when Harry goes from that boneless submission to actively fucking himself on Ian’s fingers.

Harry is making these small noises each time he takes the full length of Ian’s fingers inside of him that are driving Ian mad. He pulls his fingers out and puts Harry’s long legs over his shoulders. He rolls the condom on, lines up and pushes in with one smooth movement, not stopping until he is fully seated, while he watches Harry arch up off the bed. He stills for a moment to give Harry time to adjust but also because he is scared he is about to come if he moves.

Harry drops back down to the bed and cants his hips, pulling Ian as deep as he can go. Ian grits his teeth as Harry purposely clenches around him. Their eyes meet. Ian gives one roll of his hips and begins to thrust, slowly, deeply. Harry’s hands move to his biceps, nails digging in.

“God, Ian, I dreamed about having you inside me again.” He braces himself against the headboard. “Harder, Ian, please.”

Ian gives Harry what he asks for, fucking into him, hips pistoning, the bed rocking. Ian is watching Harry’s face, memorizing it, thinking that all his fantasies paled in comparison to feeling Harry around him again, hearing Harry say his name over and over, a prayer.

“So good for me Harry, look at you, taking it so well.” Harry moans loudly at this. “I could fuck you for days and never tire of your tight arse sucking me in like I belong there.”

Harry’s legs fall from his shoulders and wrap around his back, his knees high on Ian’s sides. Ian leans down to kiss him, hands braced by Harry’s head, fucking his mouth as thoroughly as he is fucking his arse. Harry moans around his tongue, his hips snapping up to meet each of Ian’s thrusts. 

Ian pulls back and takes Harry’s chin in one hand. “Look at me.” Harry’s eyes open. They are glazed but focus in on Ian. “I want you to come for me.” 

Harry nods. “Yes, _yes_.” His hand slides between them, fisting his own cock. His knuckles rub rhythmically against Ian’s stomach. He finds it inexplicably hot. 

Ian keeps up a steady pace, driving into Harry over and over. He feels his own orgasm tightening in his bollocks, drawing them up tight between his legs. “Come on, Harry, come for me,” he grits out. 

“Ian, Ian…” He chants, his body beginning to arch once more. Harry throws back his head and comes, wetness splashing against both their stomachs. Harry is beautiful when he comes, so much so that the sight of Harry’s it sets off Ian’s own orgasm.

They kiss until Ian softens and slips out of Harry. After a very perfunctory cleanup, they fall asleep as they started, Ian wrapped around Harry’s back, his face buried in Harry’s nape, breathing him in, and Harry’s hands wrapped around the arm thrown over his waist. Both of them clinging to the other as if they would wake up to find the other one gone. 

They wake the next morning in the same position. By mutual unvoiced decision, they freshen up and then fall back into bed, emerging later to eat scones and tea, wrapped in sheets that could really do with a wash at this point. 

“Harry,” Ian starts, reaching for Harry’s hand. “I still don’t know if I can be the man you want me to be, but I would like to try if you would.”

Harry reaches over and grabs Ian’s neck, pulling him in for a kiss, scone crumbs and all. “Yes, Ian,” he says after he pulls back. “Yes, I would like that very much.”

————— 

**Late 1991**

This time around they go on actual dates when Harry is home and Ian isn’t working, and while Ian still isn’t comfortable with public displays of affection, he has also schooled himself not to jump away when Harry casually touches him in public. He stops covertly looking for threats when they go out somewhere, sure that everyone can see they are in a relationship because Harry happened to touch his elbow.

Within a month Ian has a drawer of clothes at Harry’s and Harry has the same at Ian’s. Harry doesn’t push for more. 

Most of the time it’s good. It is so very good. Ian loves Harry fiercely, even if it is quietly, and from the blinding smiles Harry gives him as they pass in the halls of the manor, Harry feels the same. 

The specter of Tessa still lives in Ian’s mind, however, coming to the forefront at the most inopportune times. When Harry is on a honeypot with a female mark, Ian always spends the night alone once the mission is done and he is off the comms. He is not jealous really. The job is the job, and Ian knows that Harry is just doing his, or at least his rational mind does. However, the irrational side wonders if this will be the woman that will catch Harry’s eye and take him away. Ian sits in his flat and drinks alone, wondering why Harry would choose to be with him when he could have what Ian only wishes he could want. 

Harry never asks, never demands that he come spend the night at Harry’s. Instead, when Ian does come back to him the next day, or even two days later, Harry simply pretends nothing odd had happened, that Ian had simply been working late. When they do go home at night, he spends hours worshipping Ian’s body until Ian cannot even conceive of how he ever doubts Harry’s love for him. 

—————

Harry is careful with Ian this time around, he can see how hard he is trying. They go out frequently, and while Harry isn’t allowed to hold his hand, sometimes Ian allows their feet to intertwine beneath the table cloth. Ian brings clothes and toiletries over to Harry’s, sometimes spending an entire week with him at his house. Upstairs he and Ian sleep wrapped around each other and downstairs Angus sleeps on the dog bed while Mr. Pickle sleeps on his head. 

Harry thinks this is what is meant by the term of domestic bliss. He cooks for them when Ian stays because the man could burn water, and if they stay in that means Harry can spend the entire night unabashedly feeling Ian up while he grumbles about how he is t _rying to work on a piece of new fucking tech to keep his arse safe in the field so get your fucking hand off of my cock, Harry!_  

Harry maintains a friendly and professional distance from Ian at work, careful not to seek him out any more than he would were they not seeing each other. He knows that some people in the manor have picked up on it. For the most part, however, everyone who does seem to know wishes them well if the small smiles Harry sees directed at him and Ian are any indication. The ones who have an issue with it are all smart enough to keep their mouths shut within Ian’s and Harry’s hearing. 

Well, almost all.

Harry catches Beaumains giving him a disgusted look one day when he walks out of Ian’s office. Harry shuts Ian’s door behind him and walks over to him.

“Problem, Alexander? You look as if you have smelled something most distasteful.”

“No, but I certainly _see_ something distasteful,” the man answers with a curled lip.

Harry makes an exaggerated show of looking up and down the hall. “Catch Kay picking his nose again? Because I have to agree, that is quite disgusting.” Harry reaches out and pats Beaumains’ shoulder. The man flinches away violently.

“Don’t you fucking touch me, you fucking queer. I know what the fuck is going on with you and that Schemie. He should have been thrown out on his arse, and you included. You’re both a disgrace to Kingsman.”

Harry smiles and whips his arm out, grabbing Beaumains’ arm and twisting it up between his shoulder blades, forcing him to turn away from Harry as Harry pushes him, face first, into the wall.

Harry presses his body against Beaumains’ and sets his lips very close to his ear. “Listen closely, Alexander, because I am only going to give you this talk once. First, call me or anyone in this organization a ‘queer’ again and they will find your body in a skip. You may think you are some hot shit around here because our esteemed Arthur likes you, but _You. Are. Nothing._ ” Harry pulls up on Beaumains’ arm with each word while the man makes little whimpers of pain. “Second, if you ever say anything about Ian like that again, you will wish for the skip because I will hurt you, Alex. I will hurt you for a very long time. Days most likely, weeks if I have enough time. I will hurt you until you are begging for me to end it. _Then_ they will find your body in a skip. 

“And lastly, and this is very, very important, so please do listen very carefully. Even if you do none of the things I just listed, I still may decide to hurt you anyway for the sheer fact that you need to be taught a fucking lesson in manners. I don’t like you, and if anyone is a disgrace to this organization it’s an agent who can’t be trusted to do more than simple missions within the borders of England because he is too fucking stupid to do anything else. So take my advice. Stay away from me, stay away from Ian, and if you even mispronounce our names you can bet your arse I will be coming for you.”

“You can’t threaten me like this, Hart.”

“Forgive me for being clichéd, but you know me well enough to know that this is not a threat, it is a promise. One I can easily make good on.”

Harry lets his arm go and spins him around, dusting off Beaumains’ shoulders with his hands. “I am so glad we were able to have this little chat and get a better understanding of each other, aren’t you?”

“I’ll be speaking to Arthur,” Beaumains says, massaging his shoulder joint.

“God, please do, and make sure to invite me. I would like to see his face when you explain that an agent ten years your junior in age and experience was able to immobilize you that easily. Good afternoon.”

Later that night, after Ian has fucked two spectacular orgasms from him and they are both getting their breath back, Ian says, “I saw that little fuck Beaumains today. When he noticed me he completely about faced and walked the other way.”

“He probably remembers you looming over him and telling him to whisper it in your ear. The man has a spine made of jellyfish.”

“I doubt that he is still worried about that, Harry.”

“You don’t see yourself when your temper is loose, Ian. I, myself, find it incredibly sexy, even when it’s directed at me, but to other’s it is most terrifying.”

“You’re daft,” Ian says, pulling Harry on to his chest.

“You love me.”

“God help me, I do.”

—————

Ian tries and Harry is patient, and both of them think this time it might actually work. 

—————

**1992**

Ian is on his side, his leg propped up over Harry’s, and Harry entering him from behind when he starts murmuring _I love you_ into Ian’s ear. Instantly the image of Harry fucking Tessa the same exact way flashes before his eyes and he stiffens in Harry’s arms. He hasn’t thought of Tessa in months and here the bitch is again, in their bed. He grits his teeth and focuses on Harry, the heat of him against Ian’s back, the possessive clutch of his hand on Ian’s hip.

“Ian?”

He shakes his head, trying to clear it. “It’s nothing, keep going.”

“I hardly think it’s nothing, you’ve gone completely soft, and you’ve tensed up so badly I think I may lose the bit of my cock I actually have in you.”

“I said just keep going,” Ian snaps, reaching back to grab Harry’s hip to push forward as he pushes his own hips back. It hurts despite the prep. Harry’s right, he’s gone completely rigid in all the places but the one that matters. Harry pulls out. Ian sits up and swings his feet of the bed. The lube squelching around in his arse has went from a sensual slide of skin on skin, to something that makes him vaguely sick.

“Ian,” Harry’s hand reaches out and he recoils from it before he can stop it. The hand pulls back. “Talk to me.”

“It’s nothing. Probably just stress from work.”

“Bullshit. Diagramming a poison pen does not make you flinch away from my touch.”

Ian stands up, now his thighs are slippery. He needs a fucking shower. “Leave it, Harry.”

“I fucking won’t leave it.”

“Right, I’ll leave then.” He reaches for his clothes.

“Ian, be logical. I don’t even understand what we are fighting about.”

“You never do. You can’t.” Ian finishes pulling on his clothes.

Ian walks out the door, Angus at his heels, walking to the nearest tube stop and getting on. He refuses to sit down, scared that the lube he still feels leaking out of him will soak through his trousers. He stands, buttocks clenched together, heart aching in his chest.

He gets home and immediately showers, scrubbing every bit off slick out of him and off his skin he can, but he knows he will feel it in him for the rest of the night. Harry is nothing if not through with his prep. For the first time in years his knees ache. 

He goes to pour himself a drink, then decides to forgo the glass and just brings the bottle to the couch with him. He sits in the dark, Angus snoring beside him, and drinks. 

 _I love you_ , he hears.

 _I love you_ , he hears as he watches the film in his head of Harry fucking that woman the same way he was about to fuck him. It’s always there even when he pretends it’s not. 

 _I love you_ , he hears as he is sick into the toilet, whiskey and bile coming from his mouth as the last remnants of lube slides out of him. 

He calls into work the next day and pulls the phone cord out of the wall. 

Someone knocks on his door for ten minutes. “Goddamn it, Ian, stop being a fucking twat.”

He doesn’t stop being a fucking twat. Harry leaves. 

When he goes back in the next day he finds out Harry has left again. Guatemala this time, three days max. There’s a note in his office.

_We’ll sort this mess out when I get back._

—————

Harry blows in to Ian’s office the minute he is out of the debrief with Arthur. 

“Do you mind telling me what the fuck the other night was all about?” Harry asks, a bit too loudly for Ian’s taste, as he comes in.

“Could you shut the fucking door before you start your hysterics?”

Harry walks back to the door and shuts it with exaggerated care. “Of course, must make sure to maintain appearances.”

Ian scrubs his hands over his face and forces his shoulders down from around his ears. If both of them go at this like it’s a brawl it will end up being one. 

“The other night the position and you murmuring ‘I love you’ in my ear caused me to flashback to the video of you and Tessa on repeat. It was the same position you were having her in. It made me sick.”

Harry deflates. Some. “And you couldn’t tell me this that night? Save me the trouble of worrying about it for three days, trying to figure out what I could have possibly done?”

“No, I couldn’t Harry, I was so sickened by it I couldn’t even get it out of my throat.”

“Sickened by what? Me? Us?”

“Sickened by the fact you were fucking me the same way you fucked her.”

“Jesus! How many times do we have to argue about that bitch? She was a fucking _honeypot_ , Ian, and she is fucking dead,” Harry bites out. “I had to fuck her, and I did so in multiple positions. If I can’t touch you in any of the same ways I ever touched her it’s going to be a pretty platonic relationship as there are only so many combinations two bodies can contort themselves in to.”

“I know she was a mission, Harry. I know that rationally, but that can’t magically wipe what I have seen away.”

“I am going to have honeypots, it’s the nature of the goddamn job. Are you going to be like this for every single one? A jealous wife?”

“No, you can go get one of those if you want one remember?”

Harry throws up his hands in frustration. “For the love of fucking God, now we are back to this again? What the fuck is your problem with the fact that I am attracted to women? I am with _you_. I _choose_ you. I fucking _love_ you.”

“And I fucking love you, for all my fucking sins, but that doesn’t stop me from worrying that one day you’ll grow out of your attraction to men and realize it’s time to settle down with a nice little wife.”

“Grow out of it? I am no more going to grow out of it than you are going to turn straight tomorrow.”

“Jesus, if I only could.”

Harry stares at him. “So, if you could wave a magic wand and poof, pardon the pun, be heterosexual, you would? You’d give up who you are, who we are, just to be ‘normal’?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“No, Ian. I wouldn’t give you up for anything.” Harry turns to leave.

“Harry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Yes, you did. Those pestilent cunts in that orphanage have made you hate who you are so much that you can’t even allow yourself to be happy. You can’t see that the only person who gives two shits, the only person that matters anyway, that you like putting your cock in my arse, is you. 

“I’m going home. Guatemala was fucking shit and I need to wash the blood from my nails. Oh, and so you can keep score, I fucked a lovely young man named Miguel but you needn’t be jealous of him, I had to put a bullet in his head a few hours later. So I had Tessa, you had Colton’s rentboy, yes I knew and I didn’t fucking care, I’ve had a few other mission fucks, and now I’ve had Miguel. You should go pull for a couple nights so we can be even.” Harry looks at his nails and sighs, his body seeming to fold in on itself now that the anger has relinquished its grip on him. “Good evening, Ian.”

Harry turns and walks out the door. Ian watches him go, wanting to run after him, to take him home and to care for him. Harry needs that after missions like this one. 

He stays in his office. 

—————

Two days later Harry goes back to Ian’s office. Ian hasn’t called, come by, or contacted him in any way either at home or the manor. How they went from the beginning of what was sure to be some excellent sex to apparently broken up in the span of two days makes his head spin.

He knocks.

“Come in,” Ian rumbles out. He looks up, sees Harry standing in the doorway, and his face is like a door slamming shut. Harry can almost hear a lock clicking into place. “Harry.”

“So, that’s it then. For us, I mean.” Harry hates the way his voice shakes. 

“Yes, I rather think it’s for the best.”

“For you or me?”

“For both of us. We can’t keep doing this to each other Harry, we have to stop before it destroys us completely. Can’t you see that?”

Harry’s eyes blur and he blinks rapidly to clear them. “How magnanimous of you to decide what is best for me, you sanctimonious prick. You should write a letter to the nuns, let them know they won.”  

—————

**Three months later**

Harry is spending the night at home, curled up on the couch with a book and a pot of tea when someone knocks on his door. He glances at his watch to see that it is almost midnight. He slides the gun he keeps in the couch into his waistband and goes to the door.

Ian is standing there, Angus beside him, well on his way to being completely pissed by the smell of it.

“Ian, what in God’s name are you doing here this late?”

“Missed you, Harry. Wanted to see you,” Ian replies, looking at Harry and then down at his own feet.

“Jesus, come in and I’ll get you something to eat before you fall over.”

Ian and Angus follow him into the house. Angus heads straight for the dog bed and goes to sleep immediately. Ian sits down at the kitchen table, his head in one hand, watching Harry as he fixes him a sandwich. Harry sets it, and a glass of water, down in front of him. “Eat that and drink the water. I’ll call you a cab.”

“Wait, Harry. Just sit with me a second, okay? Just for a little bit. God, I miss you so much.” Ian says forlornly around the food in his mouth. 

Harry sits, and doesn’t call a cab yet, against his better judgment. He makes conversation while Ian eats. Mundane things about Mr. Pickle, the book he is currently reading, how he caught Tristan and one of the tech girls in a compromising position in the greenhouse the other day. “You would think they would pick a better place than somewhere where the walls are made of _glass_ ,” Harry says with a smile. 

Ian has finished his food and continues just watching Harry. 

“Come on, let’s get you a cab and get you home.”

“No, it’s so quiet there. I hate it. I hate the quiet now. It presses in on me from all sides until I’m drowning in it. Let me sleep on the couch. Just tonight, please.”

Harry sighs. “You can stay, but not on the couch. That thing is older than Dagonet and lumpy. The guest is ready. It looks like you are about to pass out anyway.”

Harry gets his shoulders under one of Ian’s arms and they slowly make their way up the stairs. Harry pushes open the guest door with his foot and gently dumps Ian on the bed. As Ian falls he turns, wraps both arms around Harry, pulling him down with him. He begins mouthing wetly at Harry’s neck. 

“Miss you. Miss the way you smell. The way you feel.”

Harry thinks of staying for one moment before he gathers what little resolve he has left and stands. “Go to sleep, Ian. For both of our sakes, just go to sleep,” he says before he walks out the door. 

In his own room, he strips down to his pants, determined not to think about the man he loves lying in the bed just one room down the hall. He crawls into bed and tries to sleep. Twenty minutes later his door opens and he feels Ian crawl in next to him. Ian still smells like gin but the hand that creeps around his waist and pets his stomach is familiar and missed. He rolls over on to his back and looks into Ian’s eyes. They glisten in the dim light. Harry’s hand comes up and his thumb caresses the skin underneath one of Ian’s eyes. Ian turns his head to kiss the inside of Harry’s wrist. Harry’s eyes begin to prick as well.

“Tell me to leave and I will,” Ian says. “I swear I will. I just…,” Ian’s voice breaks and his head drops to Harry’s shoulder. He breathes deeply trying to regain his composure. “I ache for you every day, Harry.” 

Harry brings Ian’s face up with his hands until they are looking into each other’s eyes. Moss green to deep golden brown. “I feel the same, Ian, but you made your decision. We are killing ourselves with this. You know we are.”

Ian’s forehead touches his. Harry feels Ian take a deep breath and then nod.

“I know, Harry. You’re right. I’ll go. I apologize for coming here tonight like this. Usually, I can keep my sorry arse at home,” Ian laughs softly, his forehead still against Harry’s, Harry’s hands on his face and Ian’s hand still caressing Harry’s stomach. “Tonight though, I was just sitting on the stupid couch you bought and all I could think of was seeing you. So I stumbled all the way over here. Anyway, I’ll just sleep it off down the hall and leave in the morning then, is that okay?”

“Yes, that is okay. It's always okay.”

“Thank you for always being such an understanding bastard, Harry. It would be easier if you were as big of an arse as I am.”

“It would, yes.”

Ian pulls away and then presses one chaste kiss to Harry’s lips.

Ian doesn’t make it back to the guest.

—————

Harry wakes the next morning slowly, smiling at the pleasant ache he feels and rolls over to say good morning to Ian.

Ian isn’t there.

Harry touches the sheets where Ian slept. They are cold so he has been gone for some time. Harry gets up, throws his robe over his shoulders and heads to the guest. Ian’s clothes are gone as well. Harry tells himself that Ian must be downstairs cooking breakfast even though he smells no food. Perhaps he took Angus for a walk, but he would have taken Mr. Pickle with him as well, and the small dog is curled nose to tail, softly snoring in his bed.

Harry makes a pot of tea. He sits at the table as he drinks, staring at the front door, willing it to open. After an hour he gets up and goes back to bed.

How perfectly fucking idiotic he can be astounds even him.

—————

Ian startles himself awake sometime in the very early morning. The first rays of the sun were barely stretching over the horizon. Harry is asleep on his stomach, facing him. Those fucking curls of his are sticking up every which way. Ian reaches up and wraps one around his finger. As twee as it may sound, Harry’s hair has always been gossamer to him. 

He lays there for a while, watching Harry sleep and drool on his pillow. (It’s something Harry would rather kill someone than admit, that he’s a horrid drooler. Ian once offered to get him a terry cloth pillowcase just to soak it all up. Harry didn’t speak to him for a full day.) 

He’s made a complete cock up of everything with Harry again. _Again._ It seems it’s his fucking lot in life to completely destroy the person he loves like he has loved no other. He had no business sleeping with Harry last night. He is the one who made the choice for them both, that friendship was better for them than being lovers. Harry accepted it because that is what Harry does. He accepts Ian always, even when Ian would have told himself to go take a long walk off a short pier, possibly with explosives strapped to his person, by now.

He also knew the minute Harry opened the door he would be sleeping with him tonight. He thinks Harry knew it as well, even if he was being a gentleman. Harry always does that, never pushing Ian further than he was willing to go. So Ian pushed, got what he wanted, and now he regrets it.

_Deeply._

He doesn’t think he can face Harry to tell him that. Instead, he takes the coward’s way out, slipping out of bed after pressing a kiss to Harry’s forehead, his heart clenching at the small sound Harry makes. He dresses in the guest, gets Angus and heads to his flat. He has until Monday before he has to see Harry again. Fuck if he knows what he will say to him then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who is commenting, leaving kudos, or even just reading. I am thrilled to see this is resonating with people and that you guys are enjoying it. Please keep letting me know what you think. I am very interested to know what works and what doesn't. 
> 
> As always, if you catch any mistakes I missed, please let me know.


	7. Chapter 7

Neither of them were naive enough to think that they would be able to go back to being just friends with a snap of their fingers. For close to a year after the ill-advised shag their interactions are stilted, consisting mostly of work related topics. When Ian handles Harry on a mission it is business only, consisting of directions, needed information and a lot of silence. There is no flirting, no playful banter. Their voices are flat when they talk to each other. Strangers would show more warmth.

It is awkward and terrible and they both hate it even though they can’t seem to figure out how to stop it. 

Harry takes to seeing Viviane, the Kingsman therapist, weekly to help him work through the snarled ball of anger, hurt, and sorrow over not only losing Ian as a lover, but as it seems, also as a friend. Ian throws himself into his work, going days without leaving the manor, without sleeping, and when left to his own devices, without eating.

Then, slowly, things begin to normalize between them. Harry, noticing Ian has gone grey skinned and gaunt, starts bringing him lunch daily and dragging him to his flat at night. Ian begins calling Harry an arsehole on the comms while Harry makes some truly spectacular, but harmless, idiotic decisions just to hear Ian yelling at him. 

The rift that had opened up between them heals. If this is what they can have of the other, than this is what they will make do with. 

—————

**Mid 1993**

Harry pulls into the manor on the train and goes in search of Ian. He is in his little cubby of an office, a pair of tortoise framed glasses on his desk and pages of diagrams covered scribbles around them. Harry knocks on the door frame.

“Ian, good morning. I am wheels up in three hours. I expect you to be the voice in my ear if you can tear yourself away from your Go-Go-Gadget-Glasses.”

Ian glares at him. “That is a fucking ridiculous cartoon, Harry, and I’ll have you know that _my_ tech is far superior.”

“I don’t know, I always fancied the hat myself. It had a helicopter in it. _A personal helicopter_. What do I get? A lighter that makes passable,” Harry rolls his eyes skyward, “explosions.”

“ _Passable?_ Those little fucking things can level a brick wall.”

“You’re really arguing that your tech is superior to a _cartoon’s_ , Ian. A cartoon. You really have gone round the twist down here, Christ.”

Ian smiles, or grimaces, or something. Harry thinks it’s smiling anyway. “Fuck off.”

“Oh, I will. I am off to get my mission packet from Merlin and then I plan to stop and have breakfast with Chester just so I can annoy him by how loudly I crunch my toast. I swear, back while you were gone, I was one slice away from the man having a bloody stroke right there at the table, but alas, I was one slice short of my goal. A tragedy for the entire Kingsman organization if you ask me.” Harry pauses. “Speaking of the old cunt, how did the morning meeting go?” 

“Oh, as well as I expected. Merlin tried to keep me in the conversation because he is determined that Chester accepts me as the next Merlin when he retires. Chester looked at me like I had just piddled on the rug and I tried to keep down my morning tea.”

“Excellent. He should be in fine spirits. I’ll be hearing from you in a few hours then. I look forward to giving you gray,” he clears his throat and glances at Ian’s head, “well, the thought of gray hair, in a few hours.”

“Away with you, for fuck's sake.” 

Harry doesn’t end up giving Chester a stroke over the morning toast, but he does succeed in blowing up two small buildings, dismantling a small arms ring, and killing all the people he was told to. He comes home with a sprained wrist, two cracked ribs, and a cut on his scalp that will fuck up his part for _weeks_. He lays in medical listening to Ian yell himself hoarse, descending further into Gaelic the longer he goes, until his voice becomes the loud grumbling of a sleeping bear. Ian snaps no less than two pencils and leaves a mark on his clipboard where he bangs it against Harry’s bed when he believes Harry isn’t paying attention.

Harry falls asleep when the medication kicks in, smiling. 

—————

**1994**

In September Harry begins dating a lovely young woman from the research division of Kingsman, which is known as Glastonbury. Glastonbury takes care of the research, Avalon takes care of the tech, and between both branches, the agents walk into the field armed to the teeth both mentally and weapon wise. Harry, out of respect for Ian, keeps it as professional as possible, but that doesn’t stop Ian from walking in on them whispering intimately to each other between the rows of books and records Glastonbury houses or see them kissing in a closet they forgot to completely close the door to.

Elaine, Ian is unsure of her real name, is pretty in the delicate way some British women are. Pale, thin, porcelain like. Ian wonders how Harry can touch her without feeling like he is going to break her. He certainly can’t be as rough with her as he is with him.

 _No, full stop_ , he thinks. He will not be a jealous arsehole because Harry has moved on.

But as much as he tells himself that, it’s like seeing him with Tessa all over again, only this time Harry isn’t going to tell him it was a honeypot. The terms of endearments he most likely murmurs into her ears as they make love (because Ian is pretty damn sure girls like that certainly do not _fuck_ ) are not a means to an end. 

In his dreams Elaine and Tessa morph in and out of each other, and sometimes she knows he is there watching. She laughs at him, wrapping her legs more firmly around Harry’s back, encouraging him to thrust deeper. _Tell me_ , she says, _tell me again so he can hear_. Harry looks over his shoulder, the rhythm of his hips never faltering. _Don’t worry about him, darling, he doesn’t matter anymore. It’s only you._

Ian wakes up face wet and an ache in his chest. He knows, on those nights, sleep won’t come back for him so he heads to the manor, beats the piss out of a punching bag in lieu of a television, then showers and goes to his office to start his day. This is what he wanted for Harry. He repeats it until he believes it.

A lead weight of rage sits on his chest almost constantly now and most days he can barely breathe because of it. He loathes those bitches in the orphanage so deeply that he wants to go put a bullet right in the middle of each of their foreheads for making him unable to give the man he loves what he wants. He has tried twice and failed miserably, hurting Harry each time. He’ll be damned if he will do it again. The rage and hatred runs so deep that Ian has fully planned out his “homecoming.” What time of night would be the easiest in and out. The order in which the kills would be made. What he would say to them before he made it impossible for them to permanently scar one more child. He writes all of it down and sometimes he reads it, makes small changes, and then reads it again. It calms him knowing that with his training he could do it and get away with it. 

He tells himself that it is just a coping mechanism. 

The night he makes the travel arrangements frightens him so badly he burns everything he had written. 

—————

Elaine, or Helen, after working hours, is pleasant company, Harry thinks. She’s smart, very pretty in the same way his mother was in her younger days, and sweet. She thinks Harry is a true gentleman even though she knows he kills people for a living. After six months of dating, she started to hint at moving things forward just a smidge. He met her parents, he told her his own were dead, and they just adored him. He put on the full Harry Hart dog and pony show for them. He was charming without being insincere, talkative without being a bore, and treated Helen like a queen without being condescending. Now, nine months in she has moved past hinting and has started actually making plans about moving into Harry’s house, without any input from Harry. Her flat is much too small for two people she tells him, more than the once. Harry might just ask Merlin for a six-month posting in Siberia just to get some time alone to figure out how he is going to detach from this without breaking the poor girl’s heart too thoroughly. 

Harry knows she is lovely and that he should be thrilled to have such a woman. She would be a model wife, meeting him at the door with a martini, hosting dinner parties, even popping out a couple of equally lovely and sweet children for him. He could discuss work with her, she wouldn’t judge him for his honeypots, and would understand that after a particularly bad mission he needed to be alone, preferably with some alcohol. 

He should be ecstatic. 

He isn’t.

He is bored to _tears_.

He likes the girl, he truly does, but she doesn’t make him laugh like… well, she doesn’t make him laugh. She is happy to let Harry set the tone for each night they’re together, everything from where they will have dinner to what position they will have sex in (of the two she is willing to be in). He is positive she would even allow him to dictate when and if she can orgasm, which, don’t get him wrong, in the right setting can be a bloody good time, but he doesn’t think she would be interested in orgasm delay and denial in the context of a BDSM scene. 

Pity, really. It might liven things up.

He is saved from begging Merlin for something, anything, to get him out of the country, one night when they are about to have sex and he can’t find any condoms. There are none in the bedside table, none in the bathroom, and none in his suits. He _always_ carries condoms in his suits. One never knows when he is going to have to resort to fucking for a mission. Even the lube was gone.

“Darling? Where have all the condoms gone?”

“Harry,” Helen tuts, “I think it’s time we stop using those don’t you think? If we are blessed with children, we should welcome it. Besides, I know it’s only a matter of weeks before you propose, I saw you flipping through that jeweler’s catalog the other day. By this time next year, we will be married and welcoming a child.”

She’s right, he was looking through a jeweler’s catalog the other night, but he was looking for a specific bracelet Ian had mentioned last week. Something he saw in a window on his way home that reminded him of Scotland. The man’s birthday was coming up and Harry wanted to get him something special.

Harry has been politely sidestepping all mentions of marriage, along with moving in together, with Helen now for weeks. Not very gentlemanly, but there it is. For her to just up and decide where they were going without including him, however, is a touch too far. The back of his neck grows hot.

He walks back out into the bedroom where she is reclining on the bed in a satin robe. She is naked underneath. Harry can see where it is falling open to reveal her breasts, and not for the first time it does nothing for him. He stands next to the dresser in his black silk boxers. Even if she isn’t doing anything for him, he is for her, he can feel her eyes roaming over him from across the room. He takes a drink from the glass he had brought up stairs with him.

“I do beg your pardon, but isn’t that something you should have discussed with me first?”

“If I waited for you to be ready to discuss it, I’d be an old maid. Certainly you see this is the right time, Harry. You’re a man now. It’s time for you to put away your toys and be an adult, take on adult responsibilities.”

“Helen, I am a spy, my life really isn’t conducive to raising a family.”

“Honestly, Harry, that's what I’m here for. I certainly won’t be working once we are married. You make enough to support a family.”

Harry’s mouth opens and closes. The heat has spread to his face now.

“And what do you mean by ‘my toys?’”

“Men, Harry, your little games you play with other men. I am not judging you, I have an uncle who likes men but he realized that it was just not a viable lifestyle in the long term, especially with that awful disease going around.” She shakes her head as if she really cares. “Dreadful. Now he has a lovely wife and three sons.” 

 _Jesus_ , he thinks, _will anyone in his fucking life just accept who he is for once without deciding what is best for him?_ She and Ian would be amazed to find that they actually agree on something. 

“You mean Randall, the gentleman I met at the garden party your parents threw last month?”

“Oh, yes, I had forgotten you had met him.”

“Helen, that man is gayer than Liberace dancing to Abba. I don’t care if he is married or not.”

“I’m not saying he isn’t. The point is that he realized that it was time to have a _real_ relationship, with a _woman_ , like a _real_ man.”

“Right, I see. I think I have realized something about you and me.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful Harry.”

“I doubt that. We are over, Helen. If you think that my past relationships with men are somehow less than because they were indeed _with_ men, then you are not someone I could marry. In fact, you are not even someone I can even stand to look at right now. I suggest you get dressed, collect your things, and leave. I will have anything you forget delivered to you at work.”

“Harry, come now, don’t be like that.”

“I am going to take a long shower and when I come out I expect you gone. If you are not, I will call someone at Kingsman to remove you. Of course, that would mean this would be all over Kingsman in a matter of days. Dumped by Harry Hart, won’t all your girlfriends be so supportive while they titter at you behind their hands and bat their eyelashes at me when your head is turned. At least this way, you can pretend it was you who dumped me. All your friends will call me a cad and take you out for drinks. Your choice, dearest.”

A few days later, when Ian notices that she and Harry are no longer together, he pats Harry on the back in a commiserating way. “Tough luck, Harry. She wasn’t worth it anyway.”

Harry looks at Ian standing there, always so handsome in his soft jumpers and pressed trousers, smelling like a fresh cup of Earl Grey, and smiles. “That she wasn’t, Ian, that she wasn’t.”

—————

**1995**

A new round of candidates are brought to the manor in October for the seat of Percival, the former getting himself killed when his cover was blown in Bulgaria. This is Ian’s first go around training the candidates. Beaumains, his old sponsor, has put forth a young man named Alistair Morton. Dark haired, pale, and silent, he does not fit in with the rest of his group, nor does he try. He stands apart from them, watching, always watching, with cool eyes and a flat mouth. He reminds Ian of a snake that is so perfectly camouflaged that you don’t see it until its fangs are in your ankle and its venom is already slowing your heart. He tries not to dislike the man because of who his sponsor is, after all, he was Beaumains candidate once as well, but he fails miserably. 

Harry comes to join Ian as he is supervising the candidates on the obstacle course. There are six left.

“Good morning, Ian,” Harry says passing him an insulated mug of tea. “More frigid than Arthur’s wife out here, could you not have done something indoors?”

“And save me the enjoyment of seeing these little fucksticks freeze their posh little knobs off? Hardly.”

“So, tell us, who do we like for the final two?”

Ian inhales the steam wafting out of the mug and takes a sip. “Christ, that’s good Harry, thank you.”

Harry looks insufferably pleased with himself. Ian can’t be having that. 

“Not as good as my mother’s but it will do,” Ian remarks after a second drink, still watching the candidates run about.

“You don’t even know who your mother is.”

“That’s true, but I am sure who ever she was she made one hell of a cup of tea.” Ian smirks and cuts his eyes to the side to Harry. “And anyway, I am an impartial judge, I have no dog in this game. Handlers and techs don’t put forth candidates remember?”

“No, but you are the one that will have to deal with the pissant when he becomes an agent. Remember, no matter how much you hate them now, they only get worse once they get that codename.”

“I know that, I’ve been running you for years. The pain in my arse grows exponentially with each passing year.”

“That’s not me, Ian, that’s the Scottish log you insist on shoving up there each morning.”

“You say that like you wouldn’t want me to be shoving it up you every morning,” Ian quips back without thinking. They don’t talk of their relationship, or lack thereof, very often. It usually just makes for slightly awkward silences. Ian watches Harry out of the corner of his eye but Harry just smiles, pulling his very fine woolen jacket around him and ducking the lower half of his face into the high collar.

“One lives ever hopeful, Ian. Seriously though, who do you think has it?”

Ian looks out to where Morton has managed to leave his fellow trainees in the dust. He points. “Morton will be Percival, no two ways about it. He’s cold, calculating, and lethal. I’ve already begun planning special sniper training for him. He has the eye for it and the stealth. In the night combat training he got the drop on every single one of the group and that was _without_ night vision goggles.”

“You don’t sound as if you find the prospect of him joining our ranks gratifying.”

“I don’t. I don’t like him at all. Gives me the fucking creeps.”

“Easy on the eyes though,” Harry says, tracking the man on the field with his eyes. “Jesus, he’s quick too.”

“God, Harry can you _not_ stick it in everything that has a pulse?”

“I wasn’t making that remark for my sake, Ian. He’s not really my type. I like them a bit broader, myself,” Harry says, covertly eyeing the width of Ian’s shoulders under his jacket as the other man scowls ahead. “Besides, I’m not the one who can’t take my eyes off of him.”

“Go fuck yourself, Hart.”

“I won’t have to, darling. Arthur has given me a honeypot mission for this evening. Apparently I am the only agent in this heavily weaponized excuse of a care home that is still young enough to play the doe-eyed ingenue to the Ambassador of… shit, I don’t even know,” Harry waves his hand about, “some small country somewhere. I’ll have to re-read the brief again. Will you be in my ear tonight?”

“Not tonight, I won’t.” _Gods be praised_ , he thinks. He can run Harry’s honeypots when he has to, but it just befouls his mood for days afterward. “We are taking these ones out for their orienteering training.”

“Well, perhaps Mr. Morton will find someone to kiss in the alleyway.” Harry squeezes his bicep with one gloved hand and leaves.

Alistair makes it to the final two. When Ian hands him the gun (Beaumains is on a mission in Italy) and says shoot the dog, Alistair takes it, aims, and while looking into Ian’s eyes, calmly shoots. The blank makes the German Shepard yelp, but no harm done. Ian takes the gun and holds his hand out for him to shake. “Welcome to Kingsman, Percival. Arthur will be beyond that door and he will formally induct you into our ranks.”

Alistair takes his hand and grips it tightly. He smiles at Ian. “Thank you, Elyan.” As he lets go, one fingertip trails lightly across Ian’s palm. “I look forward to working with you.”

_Oh._

—————

Ian is in the gym, punching the hell out of a defenseless bag when Alistair comes in. Ian nods to be polite and goes back to his bag. He is glad he is almost done. 

“Would you like to spar?” Alistair asks, coming up beside him.

“No, thank you. I’m just about finished here.”

“Afraid you won’t be able to take an agent, Elyan?”

Ian stops punching and faces Alistair. He’s a few inches shorter than Ian, handsome in an overly posh way, not that Ian cares. He looks slight in his black Kingsman issued track pants and black vest, but Ian knows from his candidacy that he is just like Harry, all lean muscle and quick reflexes. More dangerous than he appears. It will serve him well in the field. 

“I’m off the clock so it’s Ian, and I _know_ I can take an agent. I am just being polite, wouldn’t want to embarrass you during your first few months on the job.”

Alistair smiles, all teeth. “I wouldn’t mind. I’m not easily embarrassed.” He looks Ian up and down, a little more slowly than someone just sizing up an opponent. “Would it help if I begged?”

“Not a bit.”

Ian turns away, starting to unwrap his hands as he walks towards the showers. He feels the air behind his right ear displace and he immediately dodges left, reaching up an arm to catch the fist that was meant for his shoulder. He uses Alistair’s forward momentum and throws him down to the mat. “You bastard. That’s fighting dirty Alistair, attacking while my back was turned.”

Alistair smiles and then sweeps a leg towards Ian intending to bring him down, Ian deftly jumps back. “This is ridiculous, how did you pass training with this shite?” Ian rewraps and motions with his hands. “Come on then, since you will not take no for an answer.”

Alistair gets to his feet, checks his tape, and then brings up his hands as well. They slowly start circling one another, throwing a few punches out to gauge the other’s reactions. Ian definitely has reach on him as his arms and legs are longer, but Alistair is fast, faster than Ian. 

Ian goes on the offensive first, using his long arms to land a hit on Alistair. Within minutes fists and legs are flying, Ian having just enough time to dodge one blow and land one of his own before Alistair contacts with some other part of his body. Pain blooms on different parts of him and he looks forward to the bruises that will be visible tomorrow. For the first time in _months_ he feels alive. His heart is pumping, blood singing through his veins. He laughs and Alistair smiles back. He goes after the other man again, landing a blow to the side of his head and lower torso. Alistair uses his proximity to trip him, sending him down to the mats, stomach first, Alistair landing on top of him, a knee in his back and his arm wrenched behind him.

Alistair leans down and breathes into his ear, “Do you yield, sir?”

Ian’s heart stutters, he is in dangerous territory. In the middle of the Kingsman gym, becoming aroused by the weight of Alistair on his back. Anyone could see. His chest seizes up.

“I do. Now get the fuck off of me.”

Alistair stands and Ian practically runs to the showers.

Two hours later, he is at home, dressed in jeans and a threadbare t-shirt. He has eaten dinner, Indian from down the street, and has a nice glass of scotch in his hand while he reads the newest tech magazine. He is not thinking about Alistair. _Is not_. 

Someone knocks at his flat door. When he opens it he finds Alistair standing there. 

“I was wondering if you cared to finish what we started back at the manor.”

“How the fuck do you know where I live?”

“God, do you think you are the only person who knows their way around a computer? Now are you going to let me in and offer me a drink or are you going to keep up the ‘I’m a fucking prick with a chip on my shoulder’ act?”

Ian backs up allowing Alistair entrance into the flat. “You want to whisper that in my fucking ear, you little shit?”

“With pleasure,” Alistair answers. He walks right up into Ian’s space, leans up and places his lips just against Ian’s ear. “I was wondering if you were going to offer me a drink,” he murmurs softly, his voice like velvet, “or if we can skip that and just get straight to the part where we fuck. Your choice, love.”

Ian shudders from the feeling of Alistair’s lips brushing over his ear. His eyes fall shut without him noticing. He opens them. Alistair looks up at him expectantly. Ian smiles, grabs him by the neck and kisses him. 

The journey to the bedroom, the entire ten steps it takes to get there, is just as furious as the sparring had been. They practically rip the other’s clothes off, kissing the entire time. Alistair throws Ian on to the bed (he bounces once, he thinks) and then crawls over him naked and predatory. Ian is seeing what the appeal is in hate sex. His cock is harder than it’s been in months, hot and leaking. Alistair lays down on top of him. They both immediately thrust up, instinctually, and moan into each other’s mouths. 

“Supplies?” Alistair asks.

“Table to your right.” 

Alistair leans over and begins fumbling about in the drawer for lube and condoms. Ian takes this time to latch on to one of Alistair’s nipples while his hand fists his cock.

“Fuck, Ian,” he sputters and thrusts into the tight clench of Ian’s hand a few times before coming back to rest on Ian’s chest, supplies clutched in his hand. He dives back into Ian’s mouth, their tongues sliding together as they continue to frot against each other. Alistair pulls away and tears open a condom wrapper with his teeth. He reaches down between them and rolls it on to Ian. He slowly moves down Ian’s torso, kissing and biting at random areas until Ian is sure he is going to blackout because every single ounce of blood he has is literally in his cock. He looks down just in time to see Alistair wrap his mouth around him. His hands find Alistair’s head and holds it still. Alistair moans around him, his jaw going slack. His eyes meet Ian’s as he begins to face fuck him, slowly, knocking the head of his cock against the back of Alistair’s throat. Slick fingers find his entrance and circle it gently. He spreads his legs wider, Alistair moans again.

“Jesus, yes, get your fucking fingers inside me.”

Alistair slips one and then two fingers in, stroking his prostate with every few strokes. Ian is quickly coming apart, fucking himself down on Alistair’s long, elegant, white fingers and then thrusting deep into his throat. He and Alistair maintain eye contact. A third finger is added and Ian’s head drops back, a full body groan escaping from him, he thrusts back and forth between Alistair’s fingers and mouth faster, harder. His thighs are shaking and his heart is beating so hard he fears he will have a heart attack right here in his bed. Ian reaches his other hand up and puts his fingers on Ian’s nipple, he pinches and pulls at it once. Ian is gone, slamming down on Alistair's fingers once more before thrusting deep into Alistair’s throat. The man swallows around him as he fills the condom. He collapses on to the bed. Alistair kneels up, wipes his mouth, and takes care of the condom on Ian’s softening cock. He then rolls one on himself, using more lube to slick himself up. 

“Wait, like this,” Ian says turning around and getting on all fours. He can’t fuck Alistair face to face. That’s how…

He just can’t.

Alistair’s hand pushes between his shoulder blades, pushing his chest down into the bed and nudging his thighs further apart, forcing his arse higher. He fucks his way into Ian with short movements.

“Oh, fuck, Ian,” he moans, snapping his hips quickly, once Ian is taking him easily. Ian pushes back, encouraging him to go harder, deeper. “Is that what you want? To be fucked hard? Fuck, yes, I am more than happy,” Alastair shudders as Ian clenches down on him, “ _Jesus,_ to comply.” He drapes himself over Ian’s back, mouthing wetly at any bit of skin he can reach. His hand slips around Ian’s throat, squeezing gently, just barely cutting off his air. Ian is surprised to realize he is getting hard again and gets harder still when Alistair reaches down with his other hand to start stroking him. 

“God, I’ve been thinking about fucking you until you scream since the first week.” The hand on his throat squeezes tighter. Ian’s adrenaline kicks in. He pushes back against the other man.

The slap of skin against skin, the lube making obscene noises, and the feeling of Alistair’s cock driving into him harder and harder, counterpoint to the way he strokes Ian’s cock makes his second orgasm barrel down on him out of nowhere. He rears up from the force of it, forcing both of them to kneel up. Alistair is still holding on to him by his throat and cock, his hips still driving into him relentlessly. It’s so intense, he can’t even make a sound, his voice getting caught in his throat by Alistair’s hand. Alistair slams into him once more as his arse clenches around his cock, his teeth in Ian’s shoulder, panting heavily as he comes.

They fall back onto the bed. Alistair slips out and goes into the bathroom to get a wet flannel. He cleans himself up and then Ian. He crawls back into bed, laying his head down on Ian’s chest as they get their breath back.

They sleep. 

Ian wakes up the next morning when someone slings an arm around his waist. He immediately freezes until he realizes who is behind him. Jesus fucking Christ, he fucked _Percival_ of all people last night. Fucking _fuck_.

Behind him Alistair sighs. “Stop thinking so hard, Ian. I won’t be proposing marriage this morning.”

Ian relaxes slightly and then sits up, freeing himself from Alistair’s arm. “Ah, look, Alistair, I’m not…”

Alistair holds up a slim hand. “Let’s stop right there, Ian. I came over last night because I very much wanted to fuck you and it was as spectacular as I expected it to be. It is, if you agree, something I would very much like to do again, but I am not looking for a relationship right now. Nor are you. Bloody hell, we barely like each other.” Alistair smiles. “So let’s just leave it at this right now, and if we are so inclined at a later date, we can see if last night was just a one off, or if disliking someone really does lead to some amazing fucking.” He gets out of bed and starts pulling on his clothes. “Where the hell is my… oh, there it is. Now, as touching as this heart to heart was, I have a dog to feed and mission to prepare for.”

—————

Harry thinks he loves, in a very platonic way, he wasn’t lying when he said the man wasn’t his type, Percival the Newer. Percival the Former was a curmudgeonly old fuck (even at the advanced age of forty-five) who had no sense of humor, was a teetotaler outside of a mission, and took personal offense to Harry’s penchant of wearing loud, but coordinating, socks with his bespoke suits. Percival the Newer has the driest sense of humor Harry has ever heard, can drink Harry, if not under the table, at least until they are both lying _on_ the table, and complimented the socks that had tiny little martinis subtlety patterned on to them. Harry is also 100% percent sure the man is gay, even though he can pull off a female honeypot, enthusiastically from the sounds of the room next door two missions ago, with ease. When paired together he and Percival are formidable, both of them employing every weapon at their disposal with a lethal elegance and grace. 

Harry thinks that he and Ian would have been the same in the field had Ian also become an agent, only instead of complementary lethal grace, he and Ian would have been opposites. Harry a graceful symphony of knives and bullets, while Ian, the cold mathematician, automatically calculated the amount of force needed to snap every bone in someone’s body while he was doing it. His trousers feel tight just thinking about it.

Speaking of Ian, Harry hasn’t seen him in almost two weeks. He has just gotten back from Spain where Kingsman was trying to help smooth things between competing governmental interests. Ian had been in his office almost constantly, still working on his glasses, so he was rarely on the comms with Harry. Apparently he is trying to figure out a way to make the glasses function as something like a camera and ear piece, allowing the handler and agent to see and hear the same thing as it happened. Ian explained it all one night while they were drinking at his place. Harry spaced out about five minutes in, too busy watching Ian’s face as he explained it so passionately. 

Harry thinks that a morning visit is in order. He missed the bald bastard while he was gone and he could use some cheering up after the diplomatic shit show Spain turned out to be. He is going to be on Arthur’s shit list for _months_. 

On his way to Ian’s flat, he stops off at Ian’s favorite tea shop to fetch two steaming cups of tea and those lavender scones that make Ian moan like someone is blowing him. Harry has a particular fondness for that sound so he makes sure to get Ian to eat them around him as much as possible. As he is about to cross the street to Ian’s flat he sees Percival walk out of the building’s door. His clothes are rumpled, his hair is barely serviceable, and he looks like he just rolled out of bed, which, considering it’s seven in the morning, it’s a fair bet he did. Harry knows that the only other two flats in Ian’s building belong to an old man who mutters to people who aren’t there, and a young woman, her husband, and two children. 

Harry doubts Percival is coming from a wild night spent in either of those flats. That leaves Ian. Ian who disliked Percival so much he couldn’t take his eyes off of him. He turns on his heel, dropping the scones and tea into the nearest bin. This is the second time he has come bearing tea only to find Ian with another man, although at least he was spared seeing those two naked together. 

He thinks he might just ring Ian up the next time. Save himself the heartache. 

Once home though, he does have to laugh just the once. Poor Beaumains apparently can’t stop putting gay men into Kingsman.

—————

Ian is surprised to find that Alistair meant what he said about not looking for a relationship, or even a friendship. At work they speak only when needed for the job. Not unfriendly in any way, but neither of them go out of their way to even say good morning to the other. Alistair rivals Harry on honeypots assigned to him, although it’s usually women, which Ian finds completely entertaining. 

(“Fucking is fucking, Ian,” Alistair tells him one night as they are lying next to each other, but not touching, sweat drying on their skin. “I just stick it in and think of England. I may not be attracted to women, but I can still enjoy the act.” Ian can’t fathom it. He wishes he could.) 

As much as they barely come into each other’s orbits at work, about twice a month Alistair will knock on Ian’s door. Ian will let him in and they will fuck like men possessed all over Ian’s apartment. It’s good, Ian thinks, it’s exactly what he wants. Fantastic sex, no pressure for a relationship, for something he cannot give, and no one is the wiser. Hell, with all the female marks Alistair is fucking, he is actually getting a reputation as a ladies man. He is the last person anyone would accuse of being queer. 

Ian’s secret is safe.

—————

Harry does his best not be a stalker at work, watching Ian and Percival and their interactions. Ian handled Helen, certainly he can handle Percival. 

Certainly he can, right?

For the most part he does. 

He and Percival continue to work well together because even if Harry wants to strangle him with his bulletproof tie at times, he really does like the man and they, when partnered together, are the most lethal duo in the organization. 

He and Ian’s friendship remains steady, neither of them mention Percival outside of what would be normal shop talk. They spend time together outside of work, usually drinking like they used to when Harry returned from a mission, or now more often, having coffee together so Ian and he can bounce ideas off of each other for new tech Ian either is developing, or at Harry’s suggestion as to what would be handy in a fight, _will_ be developing.

“An _umbrella_.” Ian’s eyebrows have made a permanent home on his forehead. “An umbrella that is not only bulletproof, but can also deploy objects to stun, kill, and/or incapacitate?” Ian looks at him over the rims of his glasses. “Have you been watching that bloody cartoon again?”

“Ian, who the hell is going to be suspicious of an umbrella? We’re in England, it practically pisses down at least once a day so it wouldn’t be out of character to have one, and it certainly won’t set weapon detectors off. Besides, I think I would look rather smart with one. I’ve even named it.”

“Oh, god, I can hardly wait for this,” Ian mutters.

“The _Rainmaker_ ,” Harry breathes with dramatic emphasis, complete with jazz hands.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

“Not a bit.”

Ian glares at him but by the way he starts scribbling in his notebook (a habit Harry instilled him in, thank you _very_ much) Harry knows he won. He gives it six months on the outside before he sees a prototype. Bet he isn’t building weapons for _Percival_. Harry sniggers to himself and then feigns innocence when Ian looks at him. 

A few months later, Harry is walking down the hall towards the shooting range when he hears voices around the corner, Ian’s and Percival’s to be exact. He doesn’t catch much of what is said except for Percival saying _Eight?_ He doesn’t hear if Ian replies. He changes course instantly, heading to the train instead. He can practice his shooting tomorrow. 

He swears to himself he isn’t going to do it. He tells himself no even as he is walking out his door. He pleads with himself to turn around as he walks into the shop across the street and a few doors down from Ian’s flat. _This is not how friends act, for fuck’s sake,_ he tells himself. But, just like always, Harry doesn’t listen to anyone, much less himself. A little before eight he sees Percival walking down the street towards Ian’s flat, he opens the door and steps inside. Harry times the time it takes to go up to Ian’s flat and enter. Ian’s lights go out soon after. 

“Sir? Can I help you with something?”

Harry realizes he has been standing in the same spot, looking out the shop window for at least fifteen minutes. He shakes himself.

“No, but thank you. I was looking for something but I just realized I was in the wrong place.”

Harry steps out into the night, heading back to his own house. Apparently it wasn’t dating someone from work that was the problem between he and Ian. Apparently the problem was _him_.

Harry stops watching them for tells after that. It’s obviously been going on for some time now and Harry is only hurting himself by obsessing over it. Percival is giving Ian something Harry could not. Space perhaps, discretion, although Harry was never indiscreet at work, or he doesn’t think he was, or maybe Percival isn’t pushing for more. Maybe he doesn’t want more, and maybe Ian never did either.

Either way, it is what it is. Harry can be a jealous cad and begrudge the man he loves happiness, or he can suck it up and wish Ian the best. But he cannot do both. 


	8. Chapter 8

******1996**

Harry is sitting at the pub bar nursing his third martini while waiting for Ian to show. One oxford-clad foot rests on the foot rail tapping absentmindedly to the music playing in the background. Harry has already rolled up his sleeves and draped his jacket over the back of his chair, leaving him in his waistcoat. He’s even turned his glasses off. He and Ian deserve a night off and they will get it if they have to fly to the fucking Congo. 

“You look lonely,” a voice to Harry’s right says. He glances over to see a young man, mid-twenties to Harry’s mid-thirties, with honey-colored hair and brown eyes. He’s shorter than Harry by a few inches and is dressed in tailored black trousers and a deep blue jumper. 

“I’m not, but thank you. Just waiting on a friend.”

“A friend,” the man waggles his brows, “or a _friend_?”

“The former.”

“My name is Claude,” he says, holding his hand out.

“Harry, a pleasure,” Harry answers, giving Claude’s hand a non-committal shake.

“It could be.”

“Could be what?”

Claude moves closer to him. “A pleasure. Depending on you.”

Harry gives him a second look, he’s handsome in a freshly scrubbed sort of way. Claude is close enough for Harry to smell his cologne. It was actually quite lovely. It was also quite lovely to be hit on outside a mission. Harry turns the full Harry Hart smile on him. Claude looks dazed.

Harry threads his fingers together at chest level as he leans his elbow against the bar. “Really? How so?”

Claude swallows once and clears his throat. “Well, we could go back to mine…”

“That’s a bit forward wouldn’t you say? You haven’t even bought me a drink.”

“You already have one. Maybe you should buy me one. Then we can leave it on the bar and go back to yours.”

“A plausible plan, but unfortunately I really am waiting on a friend and it would be rude to leave here with you, no matter how pretty you might be.”

Claude preens, a faint blush on his cheeks. _So it’s like that then_ , Harry thinks. He’s just about to open his mouth to continue the flirtation when he hears Ian call his name over the noise of the pub. Ian’s hand comes down lightly on his shoulder and squeezes. Claude gives Ian the once over. Twice. Harry can’t blame him really. 

“Hello,” Ian says, extending his hand while keeping the other on Harry’s opposite shoulder, his arm practically around him. “I’m Ian, and you are?”

“Ian,” Harry pipes up, “this is Claude. He was keeping me company since you had yet to show.”

Ian hums under his breath. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Claude answers, both of them sounding anything but pleased. “Harry, it was nice talking to you.” He slips his hand into his trouser pocket and pulls out a card. He slides it across the bar top to Harry. “Give me a call sometime. We can discuss proper etiquette again.” He winks and then walks back into the crowd.

“New friend?” Ian asks, his mouth in a flat line as he raises his hand to signal the bartender.

Harry looks down at the card, _Claude Harrison, Solicitor_. He pulls out his wallet and slips it inside. “Possibly,” he says smiling. 

Ian doesn’t respond.

Harry calls Claude five days later.

————

“I was thrilled when you called, Harry,” Claude says as he leads Harry through his flat. Harry is pleased to note that it is very tastefully furnished in shades of white, gray, black and just a hint of oxblood for color. The sitting room houses one wall composed completely of bookshelves, which Harry wanders over to look at. Modern fiction, with a few spy novels which make Harry chuckle to himself, mixed with traditional classics. A man after his own tastes. This all bodes very well in Harry’s opinion.

“I just have to tidy the kitchen up if you’ll give me a moment,” Claude calls from the other room, “and then we can be on our way.”

“Take your time, I have a standing reservation at the restaurant.”  

A few minutes later he realizes someone is at his back. Adrenaline shoots through him and he whirls around ready to strike until he remembers where he is. 

“My apologies, old reflexes from the RAMC,” Harry says. 

“That’s quite all right,” Claude replies stepping closer, his pupils blown.

Very quickly the adrenaline that is still pumping through him morphs from _fight_ to _fuck_. Harry brings a hand up to Claude’s face, slides it around the back of his neck and into his hair, pulling slightly. Claude’s breath catches and his eyes close. 

“May I kiss you?”

“Please…”

Harry leans down and places his lips against Claude’s. He keeps the kiss close-mouthed for a few moments before running the tip of his tongue ever so softly against Claude’s bottom lip while using his free hand to grab the other man’s hips and draw him close. Claude shivers in his arms. He then turns it into a filthy, all out snog, full of tongue, slick noises, and moaning. Harry walks Claude backwards until his back hits the wall next to the bookcase. A book falls to the floor behind them. 

“We should really get going if we are going to make dinner,” Harry says in between bites to Claude’s jaw and neck.

“Yes, we should.” 

Harry reaches around with both hands and grabs Claude by the arse, lifting until Claude jumps up and wraps his legs around Harry’s waist. He kisses him again and feels Claude begin to rock his hips against Harry. 

“This isn’t getting us out the door, darling.”

“I could give a shit about the door, Harry, unless you’re planning on fucking me against it.”

“Seems like an awfully long walk when this wall here seems serviceable enough.”

“God, yes.” Claude unwraps his legs and Harry lowers him to the floor. He strips out of the shirt he was wearing, removes his socks and shoes, and then his trousers and pants in one go. Harry lets his eyes travel over Claude’s naked body, admiring, and reaches up to start taking off his tie. 

Claude stops him. “No, leave it all on. I want you just like this,” he says as he turns around, bracing himself against the wall and jutting his arse out. 

Harry pulls a small tube of lube and a condom out of his pocket, opens the lube and begins to slowly finger Claude open. He's kisses Claude’s shoulders and neck, biting down at times, until Claude is shaking and begging Harry to just get in him already. 

“Turn back around,” Harry says while taking his cock out, rolling on the condom, and slicking it. When he does Harry reaches around one more time and lifts Claude up. Once his legs are around Harry’s waist, Harry reaches down, lines up and lets Claude slowly slide down on to him. 

“Jesus,” Claude breathes out as Harry enters him. 

Harry pushes forward with his hips driving himself just a bit deeper while supporting Claude’s weight. 

“Hold on to my neck.”

As Claude wraps his arms around Harry’s neck and tightens his legs around Harry’s waist, Harry reaches into his trouser pocket to pull out his non-Kingsman issue cell phone while putting his other hand over Claude’s mouth. Claude’s eyelids flutter and his head drops back against the wall.  _This bodes_ very _well,_ Harry thinks as he dials the driver of the cab that is still waiting on the street outside.

“Jared, hello. I was calling to tell you that we won’t be needing the cab tonight so you are welcome to head back to the shop.” Claude clenches down on him and Harry nearly drops the phone. “ _Fuck_. Yes, I will call if anything changes. Yes, you as well.” Claude does it again and Harry responds by pulling his hips back just a little and then slamming back in. Claude moans around his hand. “Good evening, Jared,” Harry says before hanging up and throwing the phone behind him.

“You naughty little thing,” Harry says, getting both hands on Claude’s arse and spreading it open. “I am going to fucking destroy you.”

Four hours and two rounds later they are eating takeaway while sitting naked on the floor. 

Claude looks at Harry like he has won some prize he didn’t even know he was entered for. Harry could get used to that.

They go from seeing each other twice a week to most of the nights that Harry is not on a mission. The sex is good, the conversation is better. Claude can discuss everything from current events to classic literature to the growing gay rights movement. He is very active in the gay community, volunteering his time to clinics for HIV positive men, handing out condoms and dental dams in clubs, and helping the legal teams in the Morris and Sutherland cases. He pulls Harry to rallies and protests where they raise their voices till they are hoarse from it, and then go home to raise them some more.

————

Claude is lying on Harry’s chest, idly running his fingers through Harry’s chest hair, his nails scratching slightly on every other pass. 

“Move in with me,” Harry says, not even knowing he was going to say it until it came out of his mouth. He thought he was going to suggest a nice cuppa when he started to speak.

Claude’s hand pauses. “It’s only been six months, Harry. God, that would practically make us lesbians.”

“What?”

“Have you ever actually been in the gay community Harry, or are you just pretty enough to attract cock without trying? You know, the old joke, ‘What does a lesbian bring on a second date?’”

Harry looks at him expectantly.

“A moving truck and all her cats,” Claude deadpans. 

“I think we passed the second date a long time ago.”

“Let’s start a little smaller. Give me some room in your wardrobe and I’ll do the same for you.”

Harry pulls his head back down to his chest, his hands tracking through Claude’s hair. “I’ll do it tomorrow.”

“And for God’s sake, stop letting your dog sleep in here when we fuck. It’s bloody creepy.”

—————

Harry waltzes in to Ian’s office after a perfunctory knock on the door jamb. 

“Well, here I am. Care to tell me what is so bloody important that you couldn’t even let me get my breakfast? I was going to let my beans dribble down my chin in front of Chester this morning. Look,” Harry says, pointing at his chest, “I even wore the atrocious tie Bors gave me last year for Christmas so I could ruin it.”

Ian just leans back against his work table, arms crossed and long, wool clad legs stretched before him. He gives Harry an inquiring tilt of his head and waits.

“What? God, are you dying? Do you have cancer? What?”

“I am waiting for you to stop using your mouth as your arsehole by spewing shite out of it. If you’re quite done, I have a present for you. Two actually.”

“Oh, it’s Christmas. Or, wait, why are just giving me gifts? You never do that. You _are_ dying.”

Ian raises his eyebrows. “I don’t? So the watch I made you that shoots knock-out and amnesia darts wasn’t a present?”

“Everyone got one of those.”

“Yes, they did, but I made it for you, you ungrateful sod,” Ian replies. 

“What’s it this time then?”

“Close your eyes.”

“For fuck's sake, Ian. I am not twelve.”

“Hmm, funnily enough most times I can’t tell. Now close them or go back to Chester. I’ll see if Gareth would like these instead of you.”

Harry looks horrified. “Fine,” Harry closes his eyes and just to be expedient, holds out his hands. Harry’s eyes fly open as Ian places an umbrella in his hands.

“Bloody hell, Ian, you actually made me the Rainmaker.” Harry throws his arms around Ian and pulls him close in his exuberance before pulling back and kissing him on the cheek. Ian hates himself for doing it, but the first thing he does, rather than accept the show of gratitude, is to check to make sure the door is locked. Luckily Harry doesn’t notice.

Harry stares at the umbrella in his hands. “What does it do?” 

Ian shows him all of its features, from stun to actual bullets, and how the fabric is made from the same bullet proof materials the suits are. However, this material allows the person behind it to see through. Harry’s eyes are bright.

“It’s not a substitute for your gun, Harry, it only holds three slugs.”

Harry waves that away with his hand. “As if I would give up my guns. Will everyone be getting this?”

“Those who want it will, but you have the first, and you named it, so that counts for something, right?”

“Yes, it does, Ian. Thank you.”

“You are forgetting that I said I had two presents.” He reaches behind him and pulls out a pair of glasses. 

“Go into the other room and put these on. Yes, for fuck's sake Harry, you can take the umbrella with you,” he says, rolling his eyes.

As Harry exits he sits down at his computer and waits for Harry to put on the glasses. As soon as he does, the room next door appears on his screen.

“Galahad, can you hear me?”

“Jesus, Ian, I can.”

“Good. I can see what you are seeing as well, and hear you speaking, even if you lower your voice down to a whisper.”

“ _Ian McGlaggen doesn’t shave his bollocks._ ”

“Yes, I heard that. It was a phase. I was channeling my Highlander forefathers.”

“You were channeling a wholly mammoth. It was revolting.”

“So say you now even though I remember you quite enjoyed… “ Ian clears his throat, “but back to the matter at hand. Press your finger to the right screw and then run your finger lightly down the right edge of the frames.” Harry does so and a menu in bright green comes up for both of them. Harry runs his finger back up the same way and each choice highlights for a moment.

“These, I have to say, were not made for you personally. Every agent will get a pair. If handlers can see and hear the agent’s voice and environment, it will make us better equipped for ensuring a successful mission and bringing you children home.”

“Ian, your brain is simultaneously arousing and terrifying at the same time.”

“Why thank you, Harry. I think that might be the sweetest thing you have ever said to me.”

Harry refuses to let either the umbrella or the glasses go when Ian requests their return.

“No, they are mine. You said so,” Harry says, clutching them to his chest like a child. Ian wants to bang his head into a wall. 

“They are, but I still have just a few adjustments to make before I am ready to take them live. How about this, you give them back and I promise we will take them out to test on the grounds together.”

“Acceptable.” Harry narrows his eyes. “But we get to test the umbrella with live rounds.”

“Fine, just give me the fucking things back already.”

—————

Ian is tinkering with the glasses when someone knocks on his door. 

“Come,” he calls without looking up from his project. 

“Elyan.”

“Sir,” Ian says and stands as soon as he realizes it is Merlin in the doorway.

“Sit for Christ’s sake. Do you have anything to drink in this closet or do you just sniff the fumes from your work?”

Ian gestures at the other chair in the room and ducks under the table to grab a bottle and two glasses. He pours two fingers worth into Merlin’s, and then just a little more when Merlin gives him the eye. 

“What can I do for you?”

“I think it is more of what I can do for you, Elyan. I’m retiring next month.”

Ian sputters into his glass. “Already?”

“Already? Son, I am sixty-seven years old. I am tired. I bought myself a cottage on the beach last year, I have money put by, and Kingsman, of course, has an excellent retirement package for those of us who actually see retirement.”

“So what does that mean for me?”

“That means you will be the new Merlin.” Merlin looks at him shrewdly. “Are you actually inhaling fumes down here? Is that why you’ve gone all daft all of a sudden?”

“Just because you have been training me as your replacement does not mean that I will be your replacement. Arthur is no fan of mine.”

“Arthur isn’t a fan of his own mother. He doesn’t have to accept it. Merlin picks his own successor simply because Merlin is the only one who is qualified to know who the best choice will be. You have an almost preternatural grip on the technology that is coming out. Just those damn glasses would have made me pick you even if it was your first month in the pen. There is no one that even comes close to your level right now.”

“I have to say it’s an honor, Sir.”

“Ha!” Merlin chuckles into his drink. “You won’t be saying that in a few months. Between idiot agents, bureaucratic bullshit from the Table, or heaven forfend, the sponsors, and the management of the handlers, you’ll miss this little closet of yours. Granted you will have a bigger closet, my office, but you won’t have all the tinker time you have had as merely a tech. Enjoy it while you can.”

—————

Harry heads to Ian the moment he gets back to the manor. It was his first mission using both the glasses and the Rainmaker and they both exceeded expectations. He cannot wait to share his thoughts with Ian. When he gets to Ian’s cubby he finds it completely devoid of everything but a table with a singed top and a chair. No books, no schematics taped to the walls, no bottle of whiskey tucked into the corner of the floor. 

He runs his finger down the right frame of his glasses choosing the interface that would patch him through to the agent or handler of his choice. As he scrolls through the names that appeared on the inside of his lenses he notices there is not a listing for Elyan. He scrolls through twice more to make sure he isn’t just seeing things. No Elyan listed. His heart works its way into his throat.

He turns and begins to walk towards Avalon. If Arthur sacked him, or if he had been taken again, or if he just up and quit without anyone notifying him, Harry will not be accountable for his actions.

He pushes open the door to the tech room. Nothing seems amiss. Techs are sitting at their stations, some running agents through missions, others turned away from the screen and working on gadgetry on their tabletops, while others converse with workers from Glastonbury, helping them compile research. In the middle of it all, on the slightly raised block of floor where Merlin usually stands is Ian.

Harry takes a moment just to admire the long lines of his broad shoulders, his back, and legs, clad handsomely in black trousers and the hunter green jumper that Harry loves on him. He is holding Merlin’s clip board on which he makes notes on every so often between lifting his head to see survey everyone around him. Harry walks up behind him.

“Back so soon, Galahad? To what do we owe the honor?” Ian asks without looking up.

“I was coming to share my thoughts on the glasses and the Rainmaker.”

“I handled most of your mission myself, I saw how well they worked.”

“Right. I was coming to see if you wanted to get a drink then under the guise of me sharing my impressions with you so we can still call it ‘work’ while we get completely pissed. Where is Merlin, by the way? I don’t think I have ever walked in here and not seen him.”

Ian turns to face Harry, and Harry is shocked to see a black tie knotted around his throat.

“A tie, Elyan? When did _you_ start wearing a tie? You called it a leash.”

“I started wearing one when I became Merlin. I refuse to wear one of those goddamned suits, so I figured I would make this one concession to Arthur. The man has looked a wee bit green around the gills ever since I took over. We have to meet regularly now for status updates. I think he has taken to day drinking.”

“I’ve only been gone a few weeks. When did this happen?”

“Merlin told me about his plans last month. He wanted to keep it quiet until all the forms were completed. By the time I could say anything to you, you were knee deep in arms dealers in Bolivia. I figured it wouldn’t spoil with waiting.”

“Bloody well done,” he says, slapping Ian on the back instead of giving him the rib-crushing hug he wants to. His face falls a little. “Does this mean you won’t be running my missions anymore? Merlin never ran individual agents. Christ, I am going to have to break in a whole new handler. I am going to have to watch what I say so I don’t get accused of sexual harassment. Someone else is going to have to watch my honeypot missions and then go home forlorn because they will never experience the pleasure they witnessed the mark having. Morale will be at an all time low.”

“I will still run your bloody missions when I can. I respect my team too much to make them look at your pale arse thrusting away with no rhythm whatsoever.” Ian winks at Harry. “But, if you will excuse me, Galahad, I have a department to run. If you would like to debrief later I will be in my office around eight.” Ian leans forward and lowers his voice, “and if you could see your way to bringing a bottle of whiskey I’ll let you look at my latest project. I drank both bottles I had my first few days up here to keep from pissing myself from nerves.”

—————

**1997**

“A toast to Lancelot,” Arthur says, holding his glass up.

“To Lancelot,” the rest of the agents, those that are in the manor, and Merlin, echo. 

“Everyone is to submit a candidate by Friday and have them to the manor that evening. Merlin,” Arthur somehow looks through Ian and it makes Harry’s hackles rise, “prepare your training schedule by then. It will begin that night with the water test. Dismissed.”

Ian and Harry walk out together. “Do you know who you are planning to propose, Harry?”

“For once I actually do. Remember the lad who tackled the mark I was chasing last month, Lee Unwin?”

“I do, but does tackling a mark really make him Kingsman material?”

“I looked into him afterward. He is in the currently in the Marines and has an excellent record with them. He also has a wife and a child, a son, which could be problematic, but I still think he would do well.”

“He’s not of the usual stock we get here. Arthur will choke.”

“I know. I hope I am around to see it.”

Harry is right, Lee does exceptionally well in the trials for Lancelot. While Arthur loathes him and his lower class background, even he is begrudgingly impressed with the way Lee continually beats the rest of his cohort. Harry only sees one person in the group that can rise to Lee’s level, James, Percival’s candidate. James is slightly older than Lee, highly competent, and a complete, utter flash bastard. For Harry to think that about someone, even he admits, is saying something. The man wears the siren suit like he is wearing a bespoke tux, has quippy retorts for everything, and flirts with anything that moves. 

Harry brings up his observations to Ian one night as they watch the candidates practice their sniper skills.

“He thinks he is God’s gift,” Harry says rolling his eyes. 

“You don’t say. Remind you of anyone then?” Ian asks, watching the candidates while making little ticks on his clipboard.

“No, should he?”

“Are you even serious, Harry? You don’t know of anyone who acts like that?”

“Of course not.”

“You, Harry, I am implying you act that way.”

“Yes, but I am God’s gift, Ian. I don’t have to act like I am.”

“Jesus fucking Christ. I wonder if the old Merlin would like company in his retirement cottage.”

—————

Percival looks at the man with hearts in his eyes. Harry wonders if Ian has noticed this. 

—————

Ian finds Harry in the library, slouched in a chair with an empty whiskey bottle tipped over on the floor. A half empty one still sits in Harry’s hands. Ian sits down in the chair next to him, takes the half empty bottle and takes a drink. He glances over at Harry. His eyes are red, his glasses and tie are gone, his suit is creased and his hair flops against his forehead. 

“Went that well, did it?”

“Oh, it went very well.” Harry pronounces, slightly slurring his words. “I just had to tell a woman her husband was dead, but couldn’t tell her why or how. I then offered her some sort of ephemeral favor as a trade for his life. She wouldn’t take it, of course, so I ended up giving it to her son. He is seven and says his name is Eggsy. He has Lee’s eyes.” Harry closes his eyes. “It should have been me on that grenade, Ian. I don’t have anyone, not like Lee had. I missed it, and because of that, a good man is dead.”

Ian goes cold all over. He sees the previous day’s clusterfuck in slow motion in his head. Harry, not Lee, lying lifeless over the insurgent, his insides pulverized by the contained blast. Him, James, and Lee looking down at the two bodies on the dirt floor. 

Harry dead at his feet. 

The room tilts.

He is kneeling between Harry’s knees before he even realizes he has moved, his hand coming up to twist into Harry’s hair and pulling Harry forward until their foreheads touch. Harry cannot meet his eyes.

Ian’s voice is thick. “You don’t ever say that, you stupid fucking arsehole.” He shakes Harry’s head by his hair to punctuate his message. “It should _never_ be you. How dare you say you have no one. You have me. You fucking have me, goddamn it. I don’t know what I would do if you… if it…” Ian chokes on the words, unable to articulate the possibility of Harry being the one who doesn’t come home. Harry falls out of the chair and on to his knees, his body flush with Ian’s, his arms around his back. Harry sobs into his shoulder while Ian hugs him back so tight he thinks he is probably hurting him, but he can’t bring himself to care. Harry will always _come_ home because Ian will always _bring_ him home, no matter what the cost may be to others. 

The alternative is too horrific to even consider.

—————

A month into James taking over the Lancelot title, Ian is sitting his office, Merlin’s office, not the cubby under the stairs that he still hides in when he feels homicidal, when someone knocks on the door frame. He swings around in his chair.

“Percival, what can I do for you.”

Alistair comes in and closes the door. His shoulders are stiff.

“I wanted to come and tell you personally that I don’t feel that we can keep going with our ‘arrangement’ as it were.”

Ian is just a touch surprised. They hadn’t fucked in months, so he had thought it was over anyway. Ian missed the sex surely, but he wasn’t too awfully broken up about it. 

“Not an issue, I assure you. This wouldn’t happen to be because of a certain agent with a penchant for fabric patterns that make the tailors cry, would it?”

The tension bleeds from Alistair. “That transparent?”

Ian smiles. “A bit.”

“I don’t know what it is about him. He is everything I am not. Loud, brash, vain as Narcissus himself, and jumps into everything head first without taking the time to think logically. I keep telling him that it’s going to get him killed one day while at the same time I find it all terribly attractive.”

Ian snorts. “I can understand that.”

“Yes,” Alistair looks at him a little sadly, “I think you can.” He ignores the sharp look Ian gives him. “Anyway, I am going to try to make a proper go of it with James. I just wanted to talk to you and tell you that personally.”

Ian stands and walks over to Alistair. He puts his hand on Alistair’s face, tilts his head up and gives him a light, but thorough, parting kiss. 

“I wish you the joy of each other, Alistair, I truly do, and I thank you for the time you’ve spent with me.”

Alistair smiles at him, his hand coming up to cover Ian’s. “I feel the same Ian, and I wish you joy as well, when you are ready to take it.”

—————

**1998**

Ian knocks on Harry’s door at half eleven in the evening. Harry answers it, eyes red and a bottle already in hand. He is in soft tartan pajama pants and a t-shirt that looks like it is one wash away from disintegrating. His curls fluff around his head. He stands to the side to let Ian in.

“I take it the wee fucker dumped you?” Ian asks as he walks past him.

“Yes, Ian, the ‘wee fucker’ dumped me,” Harry answers, following him into the house. “He said he couldn’t be with someone who ‘works late,’’ Harry does one-handed air quotes, “and has ‘business trips’ like I do because he isn’t dumb enough to believe they are anything but excuses to sleep around on him. I was, of course, sleeping around on him if you take the honeypots I had into consideration.”

“Harry, that’s not cheating, that’s doing your job.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“No, I don’t suppose it does. Come on, let’s do this properly,” Ian says as he leads him to the sitting room. He gets Harry situated on the couch and takes the bottle away from him. He knows that by the end of the night they will be drinking straight from it, but for now he would rather pretend that they are civilized men. He hands Harry a glass. Harry looks blearily at it and begins to drink it. Ian sits on the other end of the couch with his own.

“I suppose it’s my job to ask if you want to talk about it?”

“No, Ian, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Thank fuck for that. I am complete shite when people start talking about feelings.”

Harry snorts into his glass. “Don’t I know it,” he mutters. Ian pretends not to hear. 

They sit in silence for a bit. 

“How did you deal with it when Alistair broke up with you?”

Ian looks at him, his eyebrows raised. “What do you mean ‘when he broke up with me?’”

“Well, obviously he did, he and James aren’t hiding their relationship from anyone.”

“We didn’t break up, Harry. We were never together.” It shocks Ian that Harry knew about him and Alistair. Harry never once mentioned it in the three years since he and Alistair had started fucking each other. He never treated Alistair coldly, as Ian would expect him to, as Ian might’ve had it been Harry Alistair was getting off with. 

Harry rises to his feet a little unsteadily. “You are not going to sit there and lie to me, Ian. If you are you can get the fuck out.”

“I’m not lying Harry. We had sex fairly regularly at the beginning, although that had pretty much stopped completely by the time James came along, but we were never a couple. Jesus, how did you even know? We barely spoke to each other at work. We just now got to the point where I would even call him a ‘friend.’”

“I saw him coming out of your apartment one morning. It was right after my mission in Spain in ’95. I had been gone for a couple weeks and I missed you. I decided that I was going to surprise you with tea and scones, despite how it ended up the last time I did so,” Ian feels himself blushing furiously at the memory, “and as I walked up the street to your flat I saw Alistair leaving, looking a little worse for wear to be polite about it.” Harry turns his back on Ian, his shoulders slump. “And then, later, I overheard Alistair ask you about ‘Eight?’ in the hall at the manor. Being the masochistic idiot I am, I made sure I was on your street, tucked into that little grocer across from you. Alistair showed up right on time. I stuck around long enough to see your flat go dark.”

Ian stares into his glass. He is not drunk enough for this. Not nearly. He knocks what remains back and pours himself another. Knock back. Repeat once more.

“Why didn’t you say anything to me?”

“What was I supposed to say?” Harry’s voice sounds close to breaking and Ian hates the sound of it. “‘Say, old chap, I see you’re buggering Alistair. Bloody well done.’ You didn’t feel the need to tell me about it, even though I am _your best friend_ , and I couldn’t have borne it if you lied to me when I asked, so I never did. Most of the time I just ignored it. I wanted you to be happy, which you seemed to be with him, so I shut my fucking mouth and moved the fuck on.

“You know, the entire time we were trying to be together I thought that it was the possibility of Kingsman finding out about us that kept breaking us apart. Now I see that Kingsman finding out was not the issue, because as discreet as you two thought you were, we are a fucking spy organization, Ian. More people knew than you realized.” 

Ian feels the blood drain from his face and a blush creep up simultaneously. It is a most interesting feeling. 

“I finally realized that the problem with us must have been _me_ , Ian, but what I don’t understand,” and now Harry’s voice does break. His back is still to Ian and he is leaning on the mantle with one hand, the other holding his empty glass, just barely, by his fingertips. He takes a deep breath and starts again. “What I don’t understand is what he gave you that I couldn’t. I don’t understand why I wasn’t enough, enough for you or enough for Claude. I don’t understand how, just me, as I am, is never enough for _anyone_.”

The glass falls, making a hollow thunk against the floor as the ice spills out on to the wood. Harry goes to his knees hard. He is sobbing into his hands, the deep chested sobs of the drunk and desolate. Ian goes to him immediately, wrapping his arms around Harry and pulling him half into his lap. Harry clutches the t-shirt he is wearing and cries into his chest. Ian presses kisses to the top of his head, rocking him gently. 

“You are enough, Harry.” Now it’s Ian’s voice shattering. “God, you are more than enough. It’s the rest of us that pale in comparison.”

Ian waits for Harry to calm down and then slowly leads him up the stairs. As he is getting Harry’s lanky frame into bed, Harry grasps his hand. 

“Stay, Ian. Please.”

“I don’t think that is the best idea.”

“Not for sex. I couldn’t get it up right now if I had a gun to my head.”

“Harry, you would instantly get it up if you had a gun to your head. You have a danger kink larger than your ego.”

Harry laughs quietly. “Just stay and hold me while I sleep. I really don’t want to be alone tonight.”

“Fine,” he says, shucking off his clothes until he is in his pants and t-shirt. He climbs in on what used to be his side of the bed, lays on his back, and holds out his arms. Harry moves in close and lays his head on Ian’s shoulder, their legs intertwining. Ian pulls Harry tight against him and puts his nose into his hair. Within moments Harry is asleep, making soft snuffly snores against Ian’s chest. Ian stays awake a little longer, breathing in the scent of Harry’s shampoo and enjoying the warmth of Harry pressing against him.

He also spends a fair bit of time contemplating Claude and how the little bastard’s life was going to get very difficult for a while.

————— 

Harry wakes the next morning to an empty bed and a glass of water with two painkillers on his bedside table. He spends the day boxing up the few things that Claude hadn’t grabbed on his dramatic exit the night before. He is relieved that Claude never completely moved in. The idea of sorting out a house with someone after merging it makes Harry’s head hurt. How people do it after years of marriage is beyond him since just going through the house to make sure he gets everything is enough to make him tear up all over again. Claude’s trainers by the door, his cologne in the bathroom, his robe hanging with Harry’s on the back of the bedroom door, the book he was reading on the night stand. All of it goes into a box and Harry calls a Kingsman cab to run the box to Claude’s office. He cannot see him right now.  

Harry had really thought that he and Claude were a good fit. Claude reminded Harry that there was a whole other life outside of Kingsman, something that Harry had completely forgotten before he had come along. He decides that he will try to maintain a life outside of work and the people in it, even though he knows deep down he won’t. In six months he will be back to his old habits, drinks with Alistair and James, quiet nights with Ian in the library or what ever new hole in the wall restaurant one of them have found, a shag here or there on a mission, or even off mission when the mood takes him. 

He will be perfectly contained in his microcosm just like those butterflies he painstakingly mounts and then hangs in his bathroom. 

Later that night Claude calls him.

“Harry, thank you for sending everything over. I assume that it means you feel as if there is nothing more to discuss?”

“You made your feelings quite clear, Claude. I cannot change my job, nor do I want to. And I can’t be with someone who doesn’t trust me enough to keep my prick in my trousers.”

“You have to admit it looks a little suspicious.”

“No more suspicious than your late nights at work or the entire weekends you stayed at your own flat because you had so much work to do, and yet I never saw the need to accuse _you_ of cheating,” Harry replies, a bright flame of anger starting to burn in his chest.

“I’m a fucking lawyer, Harry, that comes with the job. You’re a tailor. You sew suits. I can’t see the need for a _tailor_ to be running out in the middle of the day to God only knows where to do God only knows what.”

“I explained this all to you the other night, and multiple times before that. I am not going to have yet another argument about it. You either trust me or you don’t.”

“I want to Harry, I really do.”

“Evidently you don’t want it bad enough.” Harry sighs. “It was a wonderful couple of years Claude but I think it’s best if we leave it here. Good evening.” Harry hangs up by throwing the phone against the wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a terrible week this week, which was topped off by my boss putting me in such a rage yesterday at a work event I almost quit there on the spot and left all the University's property in the town where we had the event. That is completely not like me. All this to say I have read these next two chapters multiple times this week and think I fixed the errors but I may have missed something. 
> 
> Please let me know if you see something that needs correcting!
> 
> Chapters 10 & 11 should be posted tomorrow barring any unforeseen circumstances :)
> 
> And as always, thank you for reading, kudos-ing and commenting.


	9. Chapter 9

**2000**

“Excellent gentlemen, dismissed,” Arthur says and the green forms of the agents who are in the field disappear from view. 

Harry removes his glasses and places them in his pocket. He gives a nod to Arthur, meets Ian’s eyes, and moves to stand.

“Galahad, Merlin, a moment if you will.”

Harry sits back down while Ian remains standing. 

“It has come to my attention that two of my agents are engaged in a homosexual relationship, and I wanted to ask you both if this is true.” Arthur’s eyes flick between them both. Harry doesn’t have to look at Ian to know he is white as a sheet. 

“Why are you asking us of all people?”

“It seems that you know the agents in question _personally_.”

“If that is the case, you would have to tell me who the two alleged deviants were, Arthur, before I answer that question.”

“Percival and Lancelot.”

“They have been together for over two years now. Last I knew they were talking about adopting Roxanne, Percival’s godchild and niece, who they have been raising since Percival’s sister died. Is this a surprise to you, Arthur?”

“Yes, it is a _surprise_ to me, Galahad,” Arthur sneers. “It is a stain on this organization to have two queers prancing about, flaunting it right under our noses. I have half a mind to fire them both. It’s disgusting.”

Harry cuts his eyes to Ian quickly to see him grasping his clipboard in a white-knuckled death grip. 

“Let me get this clear. What you’re saying is that it is perfectly fine for someone, me, for example, to take it up the arse for the good of England, but for anyone to be in a committed, openly gay relationship is an embarrassment to Kingsman. I will say, Alistair’s defense, he certainly never ‘prances,’ the man is just too dour. James, on the other hand, is a bit fancy-free at times.” 

Ian hides his chuckle with a cough.

“Needs must with missions, Galahad, you do what has to be done for the good of Queen and country. It doesn’t mean you enjoy it.”

Harry inspects his nails and lightly buffs them against his sleeve. “On the contrary, Arthur, I quite enjoy it. Well, except for that mission with the Baron of… somewhere. He wouldn’t have known his way around a man’s cock,” Harry purposely over-articulates the word, “if you drew him a map. Surprising since he had one of his own.

“As Arthur, I suppose you must do what you feel is best for the organization, but before you do, ask yourself if you think our sponsors would be keen to find out that the money used to keep your mistress in that lovely flat in Belgravia comes directly out of Kingsman’s coffers. I reckon they would find it almost as interesting as your wife would.”

“You are mistaken…” Arthur stammers.

“It’s possible that I am, but it happens so rarely it’s hard to tell. If the meeting is over, however, Merlin and I need to go over my upcoming mission. I’ll make sure to wish James and Alistair your best when I run into them. Good day.”

Harry stands and walks out, Ian right on his heels.

“Are you mad, Harry? You could have gotten yourself darted and left on the side of a road, or worse yet, dead in an unmarked grave. Jesus.”

“Please, that old cunt doesn’t have the bollocks to do anything to me, or to anyone else for that matter. Besides no one, other than him and that little fuck Beaumains, have an issue with James and Alistair. Christ, they are practically the darlings of the organization right now. The majority of Avalon and Glastonbury finds them terribly romantic. 

“In case you haven’t realized it, Ian, times are changing, _minds_ are changing. It’s not the same as it was ten years ago.” Harry reaches out, squeezes Ian’s hand once, and looks him pointedly in the eye. “Think about that.”

—————

Ian does think about it. He thinks about it when he sees Alistair and James talking quietly together in the halls in the manor, their heads close together and looking at each other like no one else exists in the entire world. He thinks about it when he and Harry have Sunday morning tea together and he says something that makes Harry throw back his beautiful head in laughter. He thinks about it when the man he just picked up from the bar leaves his flat after they have finished fucking, and how he is becoming sickened by how empty it feels now.

He knows times are changing. He sees men and women on the street holding hands with their partners. He hears people talking about gay rights on television, he sees London Pride become a force in and of itself, he sees things that he never ever thought he would see in his lifetime. And he wants. He wants to be a part of it. He wants to go to Harry.

All he ever wished for his whole life was to be “normal.” Now he just wishes to be brave. 

—————

Over the next few years Harry continues to try to have relationships because at his core he loves the idea of love. However, even during his most fulfilling relationship (a lovely man named David who spends nearly five years with Harry, who unbeknownst to him, was just about to propose to him when a mission takes him away for three months, the straw that breaks the camel’s back for David), he still loves Ian with a depth that is incomparable to anything else he has ever felt. 

Ian continues to have meaningless one night stands with random men he picks up at clubs. And Ian, still believing Harry deserves better than him, loves Harry from afar. He goes to dinners at Harry’s home with whatever person Harry is currently dating. He smiles at them while thinking about how many ways he could gut them with the butter knife he has clenched in his fingers. At the end of the night, when Harry walks him to the door they hug as they always have, just a touch longer than necessary, pulling back at the same time, and looking into each other’s eyes. Every time Ian thinks he should just kiss Harry, kiss him until he forgets about the other person in the kitchen tidying up dinner, kiss him until the blood pounding through his veins drowns out the voices of the nuns. 

Kiss him until nothing else exists but them.

Instead, he always ignores the searching look Harry gives him and wishes him good night.  

—————

**Mid 2010**

Harry comes back from Russia on a stretcher, in a coma, an oxygen mask over his face, and his skin pale white. Ian spends every moment he can by Harry’s bedside, running Avalon from his tablet and through his second, a tech with the codename of Igraine, who has multi-colored dreadlocks, a musical accent, and is so smart Ian feels fumble mouthed and inadequate whenever she speaks. 

Harry was rescuing the daughter of an English Parliament member who had been taken by a Russian terrorist group to use a leverage. In an act of stupidity that rivaled even Bors, Harry decided the best way to ensure the group would not come after him and the girl was to bring the entire building down on their heads. Unfortunately, when he did so he was still _in_ the building. He managed to throw the girl free but was buried under the rubble. It took the extraction team, ( _who was five fucking minutes away, thank you very much, Harry_ ), a full day to dig him out. He suffered internal and cranial injuries of which the severity makes Ian sick if he thinks about too long. The doctors are unsure of his recovery.

Harry flatlines for the first time while Ian is in Avalon, handling a mission that has him almost losing Percival right before his eyes. No one tells him about Harry until Percival is safely on the plane and headed home. Once Ian hears of it he spends the rest of night in Harry’s room on his knees as if in prayer, his forehead pressed to Harry’s still hand. 

A few days later Ian is in room with him, reading to him while holding Harry’s hand, caressing his knuckles with his thumb. Harry’s heart monitor blips steadily behind Ian’s head, so much background noise by now. Until it doesn’t. Until it just makes one continuous _beep_ in Ian’s right ear. Ian swears his own heart stops. He is looking at the man he has loved for twenty-four years lying dead in front of him. 

Harry is dead. He will not wake up, he will never laugh with Ian again, Ian will never, ever hold him in his arms. 

He is paralyzed, in so much shock it doesn’t even occur to him to run for help. The door bursts open while he is just sitting there staring at Harry’s body, trying to remember how to breathe, when suddenly there are nurses shoving him back to the wall. He helplessly watches them work to bring Harry back. 

Once Harry is stable, Ian proceeds to get staggeringly drunk and wakes up in Harry’s house, in Harry’s bed, with no recollection of how he got there. He stumbles back in the medical the next day, looking so terrible that the nurses push in a bed for him. 

Most of the other agents visit. Arthur doesn’t. 

After a month Ian begins to worry that Harry won’t come out of his coma. He tries talking to him, yelling at him, anything to provoke a reaction. He takes it upon himself to keep Harry groomed, coming each day to bathe and shave him, move Harry’s legs and arms as he was taught to keep the muscles from atrophying. Some nights he just holds Harry’s hand and cries over it. He bargains with him, promising that if he will just wake up, Ian will be the man Harry needs him to be. He will do anything if Harry will just wake up.

Harry does not.

Six more months pass. 

As he usually is when he can get away, Ian is in Harry’s room, talking to him as he grades candidate papers for the code name Beaumains. Ian’s former sponsor had finally been given an undercover assignment. It ended abruptly when both his cover, and head, was blown clean through. 

“Ian,” Harry rasps, “surely the candidates cannot be as stupid as you make them out to be.”

Ian drops the papers on the floor and looks at Harry. 

“It would be lovely if you could stop gaping at me like a fish and offer me some water.”

“Jesus.” Ian reaches over, pours and glass of water. He slips a straw in it and holds it for Harry to drink.

“Jesus.” Ian gapes some more.

“Yes, so you’ve said. How long have I been out?” Harry’s voice is weak, but Ian revels in the sound of it.

“Seven months.”

“Oh, that is most unexpected. Was the cause of all this,” Harry motions to him lying in the bed, “exciting and befitting a gentleman spy?”

“It was befitting a fucking idiot. You blew up a goddamn building while you were still in it.” Ian’s voice is rising.

“A mistake in judgment then.”

“A mistake in judgment? You fucking died on me, twice,” Ian yells.

“Really, Ian, should you be yelling at me so loudly? I did just wake up from a coma after all.”

Dr. Gipson bustles in. “Galahad, welcome back! We were all wondering if you would ever wake up. Let’s go through some basic questions then, shall we?”

Ian stands up and walks towards the door. 

“Where are you going?”

“I am leaving before I clout you in the head hard enough to put you back in a coma. A fucking mistake in judgment. You pig-swiving arsehole.”

Ian comes back the next day. Harry has his bed inclined upright and is reading a book on butterflies. He looks better than yesterday, a little more color in his face, and Ian breathes just a little easier.

“What did the doctor say?”

“Nothing that is unexpected, the coma allowed all my injuries to heal nicely, which is good, but during that time I also lost a lot of muscle mass and strength. He is unsure if I will be able to regain enough of it to head back into the field.”

“That is complete and utter shite, of course you will.”

“Become a soothsayer while I was out, Ian? Able to see the future now?”

“Oh, that I can. I can see me personally seeing to it that you are back in shape before the end of the year even if that means dragging your pasty arse out of this bed each day myself.”

Harry smiles at him and reaches out his hand. He looks a little shocked when Ian takes it with no hesitation. “The doctors say you spent a lot of your time here, talking to me and watching my drool on myself.”

“I did. It was quite disgusting at times I’ll have you know, but it passed the time.”

“Nice to know I served some purpose then, other than just taking up space.” He squeezes Ian’s hand. “Thank you for keeping me company.”

“It was nothing. I bitched at you a fair amount, drew obscene doodles on your face…” Ian voice cracks and he grips Harry’s hand tighter. “You died twice, you know. The first time I wasn’t even here, I was saving Percival’s arse over the comms. The second time I was here. I was reading to you, some tech publication, but just reading to you so if you could hear anything, you would know you weren’t alone. All of a sudden your heart monitor just flatlines and I was frozen. I just looked at you and thought oh my god, he’s gone. He’s gone. I couldn’t even get out of the chair to get a nurse or a doctor or anything. Luckily they came anyway. I just stood in the corner, watching them bring you back, praying they would, promising every little thing I could think of if they could just _bring you back_. Once I knew you were safe I got blackout drunk and woke up in your bed. I still don’t know how I got there.”

“I hate that I missed that then, finally getting you back in my bed and I was too comatose to enjoy it.” Harry tugs on Ian’s hand, pulling him length wise across his body into the strongest hug Harry can muster. Ian sobs into his hospital gown while Harry murmurs, “I came back, Ian, I will always come back to you. Always.”

A week later, Ian makes good on his word. He comes into work at some god awful time in the morning and drags Harry out of his bed to slowly walk him around the halls of medical. Harry is coltish at first, his legs wobbly and unsteady. He bitches and grouses and Ian, embarrassed to be seen like this, but Ian just bitches right back. Ian brings him small hand weights to use while he lies in bed for his upper body. 

After a month of this, the doctors grudgingly allow Harry to go home, as long as he allows a live-in nurse to help him get around for a few weeks. Harry is indignant. 

“I will certainly not have a live-in nurse, I am not a child Dr. Gipson.”

“You have the strength of one, however. I have been at this job long enough to know that as soon as you get home you will be trying to climb stairs and other idiotic things that will result in you being back here. Besides you have to keep up your physical therapy. A nurse will help you with that.”

“I’ll stay with him, Doctor. I’ve been attending his therapy sessions so I know what he needs to do, and I can make sure he comes in a couple times a month to have his progress evaluated.”

Harry looks at Ian, stunned. 

“I will agree to that, but if Galahad is not making the progress he should be, we will bring in a nurse. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“Good, Galahad, you can go home in the morning. I’ll start the release paperwork.”

After Gipson leaves the room Ian stands to leave as well. 

“I’ll head home to grab some of my clothes to bring over to your house and I will be back to get you in the morning.”

“Ian, are you sure about this, the last time…”

“The last time I was a dick. This is me making up for it. Now get some sleep, just because you’re you doesn’t mean I’ll go easy on you. I plan to have you back in the field in less than six months.”

“Thank you, Ian,” Harry says, giving Ian one of those smiles that make his heart clench. “I have full faith in your ability to whip me into shape.”

“Too fucking right. We have a whole weekend ahead of us to get started. I’ll see you in the morning.

—————

Even with as much as a complete taskmaster Ian is, Harry is happy to have Ian back where he belongs, at home with Harry. He runs Harry through his physical therapy exercises each day, adding a few more repetitions on when he believes Harry might just be getting used to them. They make dinner together, grumble at each other over the paper in the mornings, and at night, when Ian is not at work, they settle in for quiet nights of Harry watching reruns of _Upstairs, Downstairs_ and Ian sitting on the couch next to him tapping away at his tablet or tinkering with something. 

While Ian sleeps in the guest room and neither of them makes any romantic overtures to each other, Harry thinks that this is exactly what he pictured them as being over twenty years ago. Possibly with more sex. Definitely with more sex, but other than that Harry thinks he is the happiest he has ever been. He should have dropped a building on his head years ago. 

Ian delivers on his promise. At the end of four months, Harry tests for approval for field work and passes with flying colors.

“Thank Christ,” Ian mutters when Harry tells him the good news, “I think I would have thrown myself into the Thames if I had to go through another group of candidates.”

Harry feels uncharacteristically awkward. “I guess this means you will be heading back to your own flat.”

Ian clears his throat. “Yes, I guess I will be. Be nice to get things back to normal, and not having to take a shit with Mr. Pickle looking at me. Why you stuffed him and mounted him in the loo I will never know.” 

“You keep Angus’ ashes in a jar on your mantle.”

“Yes, Harry, because that’s what _normal_ people do. They cremate or bury their pets. They don’t stuff and mount them in the loo.”

“When have you ever known me to give a toss about what normal is?”

Ian nudges Harry’s shoulder with his own. “Never, it’s one of my favorite qualities of yours.”

Harry sits inside his house watching _Upstairs, Downstairs_ and keeps moving his head to say something to someone who isn’t on the other end of the couch. 

Ian sits in his flat, reviewing upcoming mission briefs on his tablet, _Upstairs, Downstairs_ playing softly in the background. 

—————

**2011**

Harry is stirring his tea in the kitchen of the manor thinking about commissioning some new suits from the shop since his older ones were just a little loose from his coma, when Ian appears behind him, clearing his throat awkwardly.

“Ian, good morning. Is there something I can do for you?”

“I was wondering if you would like to have dinner with me tomorrow night.”

“Of course, where shall I meet you?”

“I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“You’ll pick me up? Since when do you do that?”

“Since tomorrow night at seven,” Ian replies, smiling.

—————

Ian is inexplicably nervous about his date with Harry this evening. Hell, he doesn’t know if Harry even _sees_ it as a date.

Should he bring flowers? No, Harry would look at him as if he lost his mind. Wine would be a good choice if they were staying in. This really shouldn’t be this hard, he’s already fucked the man, multiple times. It’s not like it is a real “first date.” 

But it will be the first time they will be out on a date during which Ian intends to _act_ as if they are out on a date. Ever since Harry died in front of him he realized that he has wasted too much time allowing his past, and the perceived judgments of others, to dictate how he lives his life. In that moment that Harry was actually dead Ian experienced a feeling of overwhelming regret. For more than twenty years Harry has chased him trying to make Ian understand how much he is wanted, how much he is loved. Now it’s Ian’s turn to show Harry the same. 

He knocks on Harry’s door at seven sharp. He is wearing a single breasted, light blue suit with a dark blue waist coat. His oxfords shine, and if he is not being too vain, he looks fantastic. 

Harry opens the door and stops when he sees him standing on the front step.

“Ian, you look…” Ian smiles at Harry stumbling over his words. “You look bloody gorgeous actually. Why don’t you dress like this at work?”

“My jumpers give the illusion that I am cuddly and soft.”

Harry outright laughs at that. “Oh, to be sure.”

“You look very handsome as well, Harry,” and he does in a single-breasted suit, about as casual as Harry gets outside his home, black with a white shirt, the top three buttons undone. Ian wants to bite the exposed skin.

Ian steps back to allow Harry to go first, holding his hand out towards the waiting black taxi. “Shall we?”

Harry looks him up and down once more. “Yes, of course, sorry.”

As he passes Ian, Ian reaches out and puts his hand on the small of Harry’s back to guide him. Harry tenses up for just a moment and looks at Ian, slightly shocked. Ian just smiles. 

The dinner is wonderful. Ian pours Harry’s wine for him, let’s their fingers brush when he hands Harry the glass back. Ian catches Harry giving him a couple of questioning looks when he thinks Ian isn’t looking. 

Perfect.

After the main course is over, they linger over dessert and drinks. By the time he takes Harry back home, Harry is pleasantly tipsy, a flush riding on his cheek bones, his shoulders relaxed. When they arrive at Harry’s home, Ian immediately gets out and moves around the vehicle to open Harry’s door for him. He walks Harry to the door.

“Ian, was this…” Harry stops. “Would you like to come in for some coffee?”

“No, Harry not tonight, but I thank you for a lovely evening.”

He reaches for Harry’s hand. His heart is pounding in his chest and he has to tamp down the urge to furtively look around to see who can see them. He brings Harry’s knuckles to his lips, hopes he can’t feel the way Ian’s hands are shaking, and presses one small kiss to them.

“See you tomorrow, Harry. Sweet dreams.” He gives Harry a wink and walks back to the taxi. 

As he rides back to his flat he feels almost giddy. For the second time in his life he has made a public affectionate display to another man, only this time he did not end up on the ground for it. No one jumped out of the bushes with a rod to beat him. Nothing happened except the flush on Harry’s cheeks deepened and a slow, if not confused, smile came across his face. 

When he sleeps that night he doesn't dream of cold stone under his knees or the rod against his thighs. He dreams of kissing that small smile right off Harry’s lips. 

—————

Harry watches Ian walk away feeling completely out of his element. As many times as he and Ian have had dinner together it has never felt like it did tonight. Ian’s hand at the small of his back, gently pressing. His lips against Harry’s knuckles was the one of the most erotic thing he had ever experienced. Top five definitely. He felt like a character from a Jane Austen novel. He swears his knuckles are still tingling from it. 

If he had been out with any other man he would have called tonight a date and the night would have ended with someone on his back, a thought he was entertaining when he had invited Ian in for coffee. It’s been a while since he had gotten off with anyone and even with their tumultuous history, getting off with Ian sounded like an excellent fucking idea.

The next morning his phone pings with a message.

_Thank though for a lovely evening. I hope we could do it again when you get back from Jamaica._

Harry’s brow furrows. _Since when am I going to Jamaica?_

_Bollocks, did this completely out of order._

Harry’s glasses ping.

“Galahad.”

“Galahad, we have a last minute assignment for you. Seems like an arm of the militant group we _thought_ we took out last month has cropped up again in Jamaica. We are sending you out, with Gwaine, to take care of the situation. You have two hours before wheels up. I suggest you pack lightly and bring the sunscreen as your pale arse will burn instantly.”

“Merlin, what in the bloody fuck are you playing at?”

“I have no clue what you are talking about. Your mission packet will be on the plane. Now, in your own time, but quickly if you please. We are expecting you here before lift off and we all know how fucking long it takes for you to style the damn hair of yours. Merlin out.”

His phone pings. _So, dinner again after Jamaica?._

_I have no idea what the fuck is going on, but yes, of course._

_Good._  

Harry, just to be contrary, doesn’t come home burnt to a crisp. Instead, he comes home with a stunning tan and golden highlights in his hair that makes him look even more devilishly handsome, or at least he thinks so. Gwaine, however, who Harry doesn’t hate like his predecessor, comes home redder than Arthur’s face was when someone (Harry) had slipped a whoopee cushion under the cushion of his chair three years back.

(That day, it was a testament to every agent’s training that no one even flinched when a long, extremely loud, and extremely drawn out flatulent sound issued forth in the silence of the Table room when Chester sat down. 

Arthur ended up pulling the thing out from under him and throwing it on the table, actually quivering with rage, before storming out. The agents sat there for a moment, stoic as always, waiting for him to return. Everyone was able to hold it together until they noticed Kay, the oldest and most serious agent at the table, trembling with a single tear rolling down the right side of his face. One of the techs told Ian they could hear the laughter in Avalon. Harry recorded the entire thing on his glasses and sent it around the manor. To this day, Arthur checks his seat before sitting down _every single time._ )

Gwaine can barely stand his clothes touching him and takes himself straight to medical where they promise him they have a balm that will stop the torture within hours. Harry had horrified him all the way home with stories about how his skin will peel off in _sheets_. 

He debriefs with Merlin and Arthur, even giving Gwaine’s report for him, and then heads to his office to catch up on a few things.

His phone pings.

_Seven?_

_Will you be picking me up as well this time?_

_Yes. Make sure you wear something nice._

_Oh, fuck you._

_Perhaps._

Harry is so turned around now that he can’t even read his emails. Ian has never flirted before. Sure, he had a filthy fucking mouth that rivaled Harry’s own when they were fucking, but flirting? Never.

—————

Ian smiles when Harry doesn’t respond. Harry always has the last word so the lack of one speaks to his confusion. He’ll get to it in the end.

Dinner goes much the same this time. Ian is the perfect gentleman. He shows up to Harry’s with a book, a first edition, that Harry has been searching for for years. He guides Harry to the taxi with his hand on his back and relishes the way Harry gently leans into it. At the end of the night, instead of kissing Harry’s hand, he reaches up, grasps Harry’s face in his hands and kisses him. He runs his tongue across Harry’s lips and Harry opens to him, melting against him instantly. Ian wants to push him up against the door and snog the life out of him, but he pulls back after a few moments, thanks Harry for a lovely night, and leaves.

It’s their fourth date when Harry finally breaks.

“Ian, while I am enjoying whatever this is, I have to say that I have no clue _what_ it is.”

Ian takes a fortifying drink of wine, moves his chair closer to Harry, and takes his hand. 

“I would think it would be obvious Harry, I’ve been trying to date you.”

“Yes, I mean that is what it seemed like you were doing, but why?”

“When you died in front of me I realized how abhorrently I have treated you over the past twenty years, how selfish and stupid I have been by allowing my own fear and judgements of others to keep us apart, and how the only thing I want out of the rest of my days on this planet is to spend them with you. I swore, while I was bargaining for your life with whoever is listening, that if you would come back to me I would stop being a spineless coward and I would be the man that you deserve, the man that you have always wanted me to be. The man _I_ have always wanted to be. That is to say, if you will still have me after the all the heartbreak I have caused you.” 

Harry looks at their hands clasped together on the table and then back up to Ian. His eyes are shiny and Ian can feel his hand trembling slightly under his.

“Ian,” Harry starts, “I’ve waited for you to be ready for this for years,” Harry pulls his hand away and stands, “and now that you are, I don’t know if I can believe it. I am sorry, I just don’t know if I can hope only to have you pull away from me again. I am going to need some time, Ian.” 

Harry straightens his tie and walks away.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final two chapters!
> 
> As promised, there will be a warning for the Implied/Reference Non-Con at the beginning of the next chapter. It's very implied and not explicit, but I thought better to over warn than under warn. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has been reading, kudos-ing and commenting. I knew out of the gate that this would be a hard fic for people to stomach but to see that people enjoyed it and the themes throughout it meant a lot.

Harry goes off the grid for the next three days. Before he leaves he informs Ian, in his capacity as Merlin, that he is taking a few vacation days and he is only to be contacted if Buckingham Palace is burning to the ground, and even then only if the royal dogs are in danger.

Ian only says, “Understood, Galahad.”

Harry goes to the small house he has in the country, also left to him by his Aunt, to be alone. 

His first night there Harry builds up a fire and makes a pot of tea that he drinks as he picks at the roast he had made that afternoon. He struggles to comprehend what Ian had said to him the night before. Of course he knew something was going on, Ian had never acted like this before. Throughout all of their previous history, whether it be an actual romantic relationship or poorly advised shags for even more poorly advised reasons, everything always had an air of shame over it for Ian. To suddenly have Ian touching him in an openly affectionate way in public was startling so say the least, but Harry was enjoying so much that he was willing to go along for the ride, until that is, Ian made his declaration. 

For his part, Harry doesn’t know if a lifetime of internal, ingrained homophobia and self-loathing could be overcome in such as short time just because of Harry’s brush with, and he supposes, actual momentary, death. Plus, that aside, even if Ian is really ready to give their relationship a chance to be what it should have been, in Harry’s opinion, from the beginning, Harry doesn’t know if _he_ is ready to now. Twice they have tried to be a couple. Twice Harry has allowed Ian to retreat back into what he felt was safe territory. Both times, thankfully, their friendship had been strong enough to survive, though just barely the second time. For Harry, giving them one more shot is risking more than their friendship, something that Harry treasures second only to Ian himself, but it would also be risking Harry’s place at Kingsman. He knows with a bone deep conviction that he and Ian will not survive a third failed attempt. If Harry welcomes Ian back and it fails because of Ian’s lack of ability to be with him, it will break him. There will be no friendship to save. He would not be able to see Ian, much less work with him as Merlin and agent. He would have to leave Kingsman, a job he loves, and excels at, because seeing Ian every day would just be too fucking much. 

In short, he is risking the two things he _loves_ most in the world for the one thing he has always _wanted_ most in this world. 

The other thing is, and Harry is having a hard time even admitting this to himself, is that he is not completely sure he even _wants_ to try one last time with Ian. He has his own emotional scars that have been left from losing Ian twice. He has some lingering resentment, which he is able to ignore most of the time for the sake of the friendship, but it’s there nonetheless. He should have gone to see Viviane before fleeing into the countryside. Over the years she has been instrumental in not only helping Harry work through the emotional fallout that surrounds he and Ian, but also helping Harry understand Ian’s point of view, which allowed Harry to forgive him much more readily. 

Harry sits staring into the fire for a long time, the tea and roast gone cold and forgotten beside him. 

The second day his glasses ping. He shoves them on his face. “I thought I made it perfectly clear that I was not to be disturbed…. Ah, Arthur, my apologies, I didn’t realize it was you.” Harry listens for a moment. “Yes, I understand. I will be returning before then… very good. I will report in then. Good afternoon.”

By the time Harry arrives back at his home, he has made his decision. 

—————

Ian is a complete mess inside for the three days Harry is gone. For all outward appearances, he is as calm and collected as ever, but inside he feels like he is about to either cry or vomit at any second. Possibly both simultaneously. 

He gives Harry his space. God knows Harry has always given him his when he has asked. In fact, Harry has been more than understanding through the entire debacle that has been them for over twenty years. He never pushed, always let Ian dictate what form their relationship would take, friends, lovers, colleagues. Harry always gave, and goddamn him, Ian always took. 

His phone vibrates in his pocket.

_I’m back. Mine at 8?_

_Yes._

Ian’s stomach clenches. 

—————

Harry lets Ian in and leads him into the sitting room where two glasses and a decanter sit waiting. Harry pours and sits back against the arm of the couch facing Ian.

“I’ve been going over what I was going to say to you all day and now I am afraid that I have completely lost all of it.”

“I’m in no rush, Harry,” Ian says, sipping his drink.

“Getting away was good. There are too many memories here, both good and bad, that I think would have influenced me.” Harry knocks back his drink, pours another, and seems to gather himself. “Before I say anything else, I want you to know that I am overjoyed to hear that you are working on putting your past behind you. Those bitches have controlled your life for too long, and you are too good of a man to live your life without love because they told you what you felt was wrong.

“I was shocked when you said you were ready for us to be together. God, I have wanted that for so fucking long I’ve forgotten what it was _not_ to want it. Even when I was with someone else I would have left them the minute you held out your hand, no questions asked. You have been, and continue to be, the love of my life, Ian, I cannot picture my life without you in it.”

“And I you, Harry. However, I sense a ‘but’ coming.”

Harry laughs quietly and scoots forward until he can take Ian’s hand in his. “I am scared, Ian. We have tried having a relationship twice and both times it has blown up in our faces. We were lucky, we were able to salvage our friendship each time…”

“Because you were selfless.”

“Both times we were able to do so, something I am immensely grateful for. If we try this Ian, and it ends badly, in the manner the other two times have, I know we won’t be able to do so again. I know _I_ won’t be able to do so. To risk it again, to allow myself to have you as a lover once more and then have you decide you cannot do it will break me. I won’t be able to see you, I won’t be able to work with you. By asking me to do this you are asking me to not only risk the friendship we have now, the most constant thing I have ever had, but you are also asking me to risk Kingsman, the only other thing besides you that gives my life meaning.”

“I don’t understand why you are seeing it as a risk, you know how good we are together.”

“Yes, we are good together, more than good, but we can also be very bad for each other when everything goes to shit. Not only that, but you have years of conditioning from both your childhood, and your own behavior, to unlearn. Forgive me if I think that it takes more time than a couple weeks to overcome that.”

“I didn’t say it was going to be easy. Of course it takes more than a couple weeks. The first night I kissed you on your doorstep I was terrified. But I did it again, and I took your hand in the restaurant. Those steps have to count for something. You have got to work with me a little, Harry.”

“Ian,” Harry says softly, “I’ve been working with you for over twenty years.”

Ian hangs his head. 

“I also think it is only fair to say that I have my own issues that I continue to work through stemming from the emotional rollercoaster that we have been on since we met. You said that I was selfless, and that is why we were always able to remain friends. It’s true, but that selflessness came with a cost. I spent a lot of time being angry at you and then internalizing it to save our friendship because _not_ having you at all was even worse. Each time we fell apart it was like carving my own heart out, and doing so left scars, Ian, scars that have only just healed within the past few years. I don’t know if I want to start a relationship with those still fresh.”

Ian stares at their hands, his in a death grip around Harry’s. His breath hitches in his chest. 

“I understand, I do. Thank you for being honest with me. I will take you any way I can get you, Harry, and if that means us remaining friends then I shall be happy for it.” Ian makes a move to pull his hand away and stand. Harry refuses to let go. 

“Ian, sit your arse back on the couch.” Harry tugs at him until Ian sits again. “All of this has been to say that I am not saying no, but I am saying _not right now_. While I was gone Arthur contacted me. I am going into deep cover as Harold Rutherven for at least six months, possibly closer to a year. It seems that someone is trying to start up Tessa’s old business network and they have been searching for her long lost husband.”

“Nothing was said to me about any of this. I’m Merlin, all missions go through me.”

“Except deep cover missions, Ian. No one knows about those except Arthur until they are finished. No one but he and I know where I am going and what I will be doing.”

“When do you leave?”

“In six hours. I will have no contact with Kingsman until the mission is finished. I don’t even know when I will be back.”

“Fuck,” Ian chokes out. “I wasted so much fucking time Harry, so much time we could have had if I wasn’t a coward.”

“Ian, you were not a coward. There are very valid reasons that you are the way you are, and now, for you to stand up and be willing to fight against your demons? You are the strongest man I know. You should use this time I am away to figure all of this out. I don’t doubt your love for me, or your desire to leave all that bullshit behind you and be with me, but I think I it is going to take some work. Try seeing Viviane, god knows she knows our history. I’ve been seeing her for years and it has helped immensely. Try getting involved with the gay community at large. See if you can do it, being out that is, before you risk us. I plan on doing a lot of soul searching myself. I need to know that I can come into a relationship with you without holding on to past resentments and judgements. If I come home…”

Ian’s hand tightens enough that Harry’s fingers tingle. “When you come home, you arsehole.”

“I wasn’t saying it like that if you would be so kind as to let me finish. If I come home and we both still feel the same way about this, then I will happily fall into your arms like a swooning maiden.”

“I cannot think of anyone who is less of a maiden than you.”

“Galahad was the purest of the knights I’ll have you know.”

“I do, and you bring dishonor to him every moment you’re alive. Six hours before you leave?”

“Yes.”

“Are you already packed?”

“Yes.”

“Then would you be opposed to going upstairs and allowing me to hold you until then? I’ll be a perfect gentleman, I swear.”

Harry smiles broadly. “Not at all.”

Ian is not a perfect gentleman, of course, then again, neither is Harry. The end up kissing for hours, sometimes softly, sometimes desperately, molded to each other until they fall asleep. Harry gets up an hour before the car is due to arrive and silently dresses. 

Before he leaves, he bends down and kisses Ian’s temple. “I do love you,” he whispers against his skin. Ian’s hand reaches out and grabs his wrist.

“Come back to me.”

“Always.”

—————

Ian wakes the next morning reaching for Harry before he remembers he is gone. After getting up, he walks around the house slowly putting things to rights for an extended absence. He goes to the closet and gets sheets to throw over furniture and the thrice-damned stuffed dog. He makes sure all the dishes are clean and put away, drinks the rest of the whiskey because there is certainly no sense in it going bad while Harry is gone. He sits on the floor and cries for a bit because he can. 

He logs on to Harry’s computer, sets all the Kingsman alarms Harry has and directs the alerts to his computers at home and at the manor, after which he sets up a few more personal alerts as well, ones that anyone but him would trip. 

Then he sucks it up and goes to work.

The first few weeks aren’t that bad. He is used to Harry being gone for weeks at a time for various missions, used to radio silence. It’s the second month his nerves begin to fray. He has never gone this long without hearing Harry’s voice. He takes to calling Harry’s cell, which is in his house, in his desk, just to hear his voicemail greeting. He may, when he’s drunk and lonesome, leave long rambling messages about how much he misses him, or one memorable time, a graphic description of what Ian is going to do to him when he gets home. 

Ian begins to see Viviane. He goes to her once or twice a week to talk about his childhood, his internal issues, and the tumultuous friendship/relationship he has had with Harry. She listens and always tells him what he _needs_ to hear, whether he likes it or not. Sometimes he yells at her, storming out of her office because _he can figure his shite out by himself thank you very fucking much_ , after which he goes to his next appointment shamefaced and apologetic. The woman doesn’t even bat an eye. 

He starts making small steps into the gay community, the community outside of clubs. He goes to a monthly support group for people coming out later in life. Hearing others talk about their own struggles with coming to terms with their sexuality and living their life openly is very cathartic. He finds himself staying after meetings, talking with people over coffee, reminding himself that he is not the only one who is going through this and trying to come out the other side. He often wonders how different things between him and Harry would have been if he had just tried to do any of this years ago. 

And of course, since he is not remotely interested in pulling, he does so without even trying.

“Hi,” a voice comes from behind him, “I’ve seen you in the last couple of meetings.” The man sticks out his hand. “I’m Nick.”

“Ian,” Ian answers. “Nice to meet you.”

Nick looks him up and down. “I was wondering if you would like to get a drink afterward, get to know each other better.”

Nick is definitely handsome, light brown skin with black hair, dark eyes, and as the fitted shirt shows, is built very nicely. A year ago Ian would have said, let’s skip the drink and head straight back to mine. While Nick is gorgeous, he is not Harry.

“Do you mean actual drinks or do you mean a drink and then heading back to yours?

“I’ll take the former, but I would prefer the latter.”

“Sorry, Nick, but I’m not available.”

“Boyfriend?”

“I would call him my missing piece, but yes we can go with boyfriend.” 

“Where is he? I’ve never seen him here with you.”

“Extended business trip.”

Nick presses closer and places his hand on Ian’s arm. “He’ll never know.”

“That’s true.” He picks up Nick’s hand and removes it from his arm. “But I would. Have a good night.”

He goes to Harry’s house that night and sleeps in the master bedroom, his face pressed to Harry’s pillow, searching for his scent. 

In the middle of the third month, a postcard arrives at Harry’s flat. It is postmarked from Berlin.

_I,_

_It is dreary as fuckall here and I am miserable. Progress is being made but there is no end in sight._

_I think of you often and miss you most terribly._

_~H_

Ian puts it on Harry’s fridge. More and more of the rare nights he actually leaves the manor are spent at Harry’s rather than his own. Soon he has taken the sheets that covered Harry’s furniture over to his flat to cover what is there. His toothbrush sits next to Harry’s in the cup on the sink. His jumpers are folded in the drawer next to Harry’s rather impressive collection of concert t-shirts, and his shoes live next to Harry’s by the door. 

More post cards show up, postmarked from all over Europe, letting Ian know that Harry is still out there doing what he has to, while Ian is home doing the same. They keep the nights where Ian thinks about what will happen if Harry doesn’t come home few and far between. 

Ian begins to volunteer at shelter for LGBT youth where he spends time talking to kids that have been kicked out of their homes for who they are, who they love. He shares his childhood with them, tells them how long he let his abusers write his story for him, and hopes that he keeps the same self-loathing from growing in at least one kid’s life. 

He and Viviane talk less and less about his past, and more about his future, what he sees for him and Harry, and what he sees for himself if he and Harry decide to remain friends. 

Even with all this though, Harry was right. A lifetime of learned behavior does not automatically correct itself because he wants it to, or even wills it to. He is walking down the street one night six months into Harry’s absence, heading to the shelter, when he hears shouting coming from the end of the street.

“Fucking fag. Gonna show you what happens to your type around here.”

Ian, before he even thinks about it, has stopped walking, automatically turning away, his hindbrain so trained to keep himself away from anything that might out him, that might mean danger over being gay, that he doesn’t even think to help for a moment. 

Then he hears the sound of more slurs being shouted coupled with the unmistakable sound of fists hitting flesh and he runs, not away, but towards. 

There are four of them, huddled around a fifth who is laying on the ground. The ones standing are spitting on the person on the ground and kicking the victim randomly. 

“Is there a problem, gentleman?”

The group turns around, men in their twenties and thirties, men who are just like the boys who stood around Ian as he lay on the ground bloodied and beaten. 

“Piss off. This doesn’t concern you.”

“I think it does concern me. Four against one, a bit unsporting wouldn’t you say?”

“What the fuck do you care,” one calls out, kicking the person lying on the ground when they make a move to rise. “Unless you’re a fucking poof too. You come down here for the shelter kids? Maybe one of them will suck your filthy fucking cock.” 

Ian takes his jacket off, laying it across the fence next to him and rolling up his sleeves. “I have been told that those who profess to hate us fags so much are the ones who want to fuck us the most. Maybe you would like to be the one to suck my cock?”

“You fucker, you ain’t going to get away with saying that to me. You fucking disgust me.” 

“Why don’t you come whisper that right in my ear, eh, laddie? Unless you’re too fucking scared.”

The four move together as one, coming at Ian hard. The first one to get to him rears his arm back for a punch which Ian catches in his hand. One twist of Ian’s hand and the man’s wrist snaps, the sound of bone breaking echoing for one clear second. The man drops to his knees and Ian brings his knee up quickly, smashing it into his face, breaking his nose and laying him out cold. The other three stop and look at their friend. One flicks out a knife. It glints in the street light. 

“Well, come on,” Ian says, motioning them forward. “I haven’t got all night to dance with you.”

“Get his fucking arms and hold him,” the one holding the knife calls and the other two move forward, one on either side of Ian. The one on the right closes in first, grabbing his arm while the one on the left levels a punch into Ian’s kidney. He fights back for show but allows them to finally get a good grip on both his arms.

The man with the knife walks up close to him and drags it down the front of his shirt, the stupid fucker not even noticing that it doesn’t even leave a mark. “Ok, baldy. Now we’s gonna carve you up real good, and then, when we’re done, we’re going to finish the business we have with that one over there on the ground.”

“What one on the ground?” Ian asks.

He looks behind him and the instant his head turns back to face Ian, Ian bashes his forehead into the other man’s. The man stumbles back a few steps and Ian drives his legs up, using the two useless fuckers holding his arms as leverage, landing his feet right in the knife wielder’s sternum, putting him on the ground. As his legs swing back he allows himself to fall forward, bringing the other two down with him. Raising up to his knees, he grabs each one by the hair and smashes their faces into the pavement. He stands, brushes his trousers off and walks over to the one who had the knife. The man is lying on the ground, his breathing shallow. He crouches down next to him. He reaches into the man’s pocket, pulls out his wallet, and leafs through it until he finds his identification. Ian holds it up before the man’s eyes before slipping it into his pocket. 

“The next time you want to beat someone up for being gay, I suggest you remember that I now know who you are and where you live. I will be keeping an eye on you, and you should fucking believe that I have eyes everywhere. I see you so much as look at someone funny, you or any of your mates here, I will find you and when I do it will make tonight seem like a walk in the park. Do you understand?”

The man nods.

“I can’t hear you.”

“Yes, yes sir, I understand,” he chokes out, still trying to get his breath back.

“Good,” Ian says as he levels one last punch to the man’s face.

—————

During the eighth month of Harry’s mission, Ian finds a small package that has been pushed through the mail slot in Harry’s door. It only has Harry’s address written on it with no return. He lays it on the desk and sits down. He stares at it for a few minutes before he opens it, praying to a God he never believed in that it does not contain a piece of Harry in it. 

Inside is small box. Inside that is a small framed watercolor painting of a red deer, a Hart, Ian realizes, with a note attached to it.

_See you soon._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, let me know if you see anything that needs correcting! :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Implied/Referenced Non-Con in this chapter. Please see the endnotes at the bottom of the page for a brief description. 
> 
> This is it!
> 
> Unless I develop a one shot I have kicking around my mind.

Harry boards the plane still feeling Ian’s fingers around his wrist. As much as he hates to leave him, Harry knows that this time apart will be the best thing for them. Harry needs some distance to decide if he is willing to give it one more go. As for Ian, he will either realize that he is not ready to be out, he will come out and find someone else while Harry is away, or he will come out and still be waiting for Harry when he returns. 

He shakes himself, pours himself a drink, and begins to look over his mission brief. He has until he arrives in Berlin to pull on the guise of Rutherven, memorize his packet, and catch just a little more sleep. 

By the time the plane touches down Harold Rutherven is center stage. His suits are expensive and bespoke, much like Harry’s own (and still Kingsman material), but instead of timeless classics, Rutherven follows the trends. His hair uses no pomade to hold it in place as he allows his natural wave to show, giving him a fresh out of bed look. Tasteful, but flashy, jewelry adorns one wrist and on his left ring finger is his wedding ring, him being too sentimental to take it off even after all this time. His walk changes, becoming a looser gait, more sensual than swagger, his voice booming, gregarious, always inviting a party to form around him as long as he is the focus of it.

It doesn’t take long for Harry to find the person he is looking for. On his third night there, he enters a club and heads straight for the VIP area scanning the couches there for a man he only knows by the name of Boothe and who he only met once while with Tessa. Boothe is Irishman who has been involved in the trafficking, of all types, trade since he was a teen. He was head of Tessa’s operation in Ireland, which he took over when she so _tragically_ died. 

Harry spots him quickly. Boothe has his arm around one girl while he snorts cocaine off another’s left breast. The small table in front of them is littered with pills, glasses, and empty bottles. 

“Boothe, I hear you have been looking for me.”

Boothe stands and reaches to hug Harry, clapping him on the back like they are old mates from school. “Harry Rutherven, you’re a hard fucking man to track down. Sit, sit.” He gestures to the couch. “Care for some,” Boothe asks, holding out a mirror with long white lines on it and a rolled up bill.

“Yes, thank you, I believe I will,” Harry waves away the rolled bill, instead reaching into his pocket to pull out a small gold tube, “I have my own.” Harry leans in and snorts two lines, one in each nostril. The tube, a Kingsman accessory, allows the lines to be pulled into it but vaporizes the drug before it goes into Harry’s body. He also had pills to counteract the effects of alcohol and most other drugs. Rutherven would have to partake at times, and it would not do for Harry to be actually rolling if everything went to shit. 

“Not that it isn’t good to see you, and your friends,” Harry smiles at one of the girls who immediately moves over to his side, “but I am curious as to why you have been looking for me.”

Boothe ignores the question. “Everything went to fucking hell when Tessa died and you dropped off the face of the earth. The business had no leadership and a lot of little arseholes thought they were fucking kingpins over night. I took over the business in Ireland and Scotland, building up my money, my team from there. It was hard going for a while, fucking rozzers were all over the place, looking at everyone that even had been around her. I had to keep everything low for a little while. Where were you anyway, man?” Boothe phrases the question in a very nonchalant way, but Harry knows how he answers that question will directly determine how he leaves tonight. 

“I was a guest of Her Majesty for ten years after I lost Tessa. They were able to pin some arms deals on me. I could have gotten out but I’m afraid that Tessa’s loss made everything meaningless and I lost all interest in the business. Once I finished my sentence, I headed over to the States to start fresh.”

“Anything going on over there worth looking into?”

“A little. I dabbled a bit here and there with some other profitable ventures, and they keep a little money coming in. It’s possible, with the right management, they could be developed. I returned to England just last year. A few weeks ago I heard that you had been asking around for me so I thought I would come find you. Which brings us back to the question, Boothe,” Harry allows just a bit of annoyance to creep into his voice, “ _why have you been looking for me?_ ”

“Me and some other of the boys want to see if we can get the business back to where it was when Tessa was running it. We had a base of operation in almost every country then, nothing moved without her say so and without us all getting a cut, but a lot of the players out there still want to run the show separate like, not seeing the bigger fucking picture if you get me. We need someone to go and grease some palms, someone they all knew Tessa trusted. Who the fuck better than her husband, eh?”

“It’s been over twenty years, Boothe. Do you really think all the men who have been running their own trades will suddenly want to give that up?”

“You’d be surprised. I’ve been working on it myself for the past five years. So far Temio, Erik, and a few of the others you never had a chance to meet have agreed to move forward as a group. I think some of the others can be convinced, and those who can’t will get a bullet in their heads until we find the next person in line who agrees.”

“And what is in it for me? Or am I doing this simply out of the goodness of my heart?”

“We, the ones already on board with bringing this back together, have decided that you will get three percent of all our profits, all of ours. As we bring more on board, that will be a nice fucking chunk of money.”

“You make a good point. Give me the evening to think about it. I’ll give you my answer tomorrow.”

“Sounds good to me. Enough about business though, let’s enjoy ourselves.”

Harry ends up with the woman that had been plastered to his side since he arrived. Boothe has paid for them both for the entire night and being the _generous_ man he is, he shares with Harry. Harry, who is supposed to be drunk by this time, and coked up, agrees when Boothe drags him and the women back to the hotel. By the end of the night, Harry has fucked both of the women, as has Boothe, pretended to enjoy some more of Boothe’s drugs, and listened to him drunkenly ramble about his plans. Harry waits for Boothe and the women to pass out before he slips out of the room. 

Harry agrees to the proposal the next night. He spends weeks with Boothe, the man bringing him up to speed on who was running what in what country, who the trouble makers were, who they would need to take out and replace. Harry hires his own entourage, four bodyguards, ex-mercenaries recommended by Boothe, and goes country to country bringing more into the fold or putting a bullet between their, and anyone else who got mouthy with him, eyes. Word travels fast and each person needs less convincing than the last. 

————

Harry finds, two months in, that he is simply aching for Ian. He would give almost anything just to be able to hear his voice. They have been apart longer than this before, but never with the additional stress of radio silence. At night he dreams of Ian’s rumbling voice in his ear, his hands all over Harry.

He wonders how Ian is doing in regards to his trauma recovery, for there is no other word but trauma to describe the hell Ian endured when he was younger. He wonders if Ian has made friends within the gay community, or possibly made something closer than a friend. The idea makes his heart hurt. 

He spends a lot of his travel time, flying to and fro across Europe, to mull over his feelings. To ask himself if giving them a chance, providing that Ian is really ready to make a proper go of it, is worth the risk of losing it all. 

In the end it’s surprisingly a simple decision to make. He realizes during one close call in Kazan that he does not want to be on the business end of a bullet one day and regret that he gave up finding out who they could be because he was so scared of losing who they are. If, when he returns home, Ian still feels the same as he did when Harry left, if he has made headway with his issues, then he deserves to have Harry do the same. Having Ian next to him, at work, at home, and in bed is worth losing everything, because to Harry Ian _is_ everything. It won’t be easy for either of them, but more than anything, they are worth fighting for.

————

Unfortunately, it isn’t just talking and putting a few well-earned bullets in between someone’s eyes that Harry is required to do for the mission. He also has to break bread, so to speak, with the filth he is rubbing elbows with. In Sweden, he is shown the newest shipment of men and women that Erik, the current man in charge, had just brought in. 

“They are beautiful are they not? Fresh, ready for a firm hand.” 

Harry casts a lecherous eye over the group of men and women huddled on the floor, some of them barely adults.  

“They are gorgeous,” Harry agrees, “where will they be going?”

“We have an auction once a month, people from all over the world come to purchase our goods. By this time next month, they will all have a new home where they will serve their owners until they are too worn out to do so.”

“And then?”

“They will be disposed of as the master sees fit, just like any other pet. Now Mr. Rutherven, in honor of our new business venture together, I would like to offer one of them to you, permanently. Your choice.”

Harry is going to be sick. He is going to be sick and the whole mission will go completely tits up and he will end up buried in an unmarked grave. 

“Erik, you are too kind. I couldn’t.”

Erik looks at him intently, his hand resting lightly on his gun. “I insist. You wouldn’t refuse a gift, would you?”

“No, certainly not. Let me see them properly for a moment.”

Harry walks among the people kneeling on the floor. He chooses a woman who looks at him as if she will be happy to bury a knife in his back the first chance she gets. Good, he can work with that. He reaches down and grabs her by her dark hair. “This one looks as though she has some fight in her, she should be a pleasure to break.”

“An excellent choice.” Erik pulls the gun out and levels it at her head. “Now, pet, service your new owner.”

Harry clenches his fist by his side when he feels her hands at his belt. He thinks when this is all said and done he will come back to kill Erik personally. 

————

He takes the woman back to his hotel that evening and assesses the best place for her in the room while she stands next to him, held in place by one of his guards. He could put her in the bed with him, but he has a feeling that could be bad for him and bad for the trust he is going to need to build with her. In the end, he settles on the floor since she is supposed to be his ‘property’ now. He uses the cuffs Erik placed on her before they left to secure her to one of the bed posts once he has made up a pallet for her. Once she is secure, he asks for her name.

“What the fuck do you care?” She spits out at him. She is English at least, which gives Harry a much better chance of getting her home when this is said and done.

“I shall call you Veronica then. Veronica, I do want to apologize for what had to happen back there.”

“You mean how you fucking came in my mouth? I am sure it tore you up inside.”

“I know you won’t believe it, but it is the last thing I wanted. I have no plans on making further use of you, but I would advise that when you are with me around other people you look well fucked and docile. You will do as I say when I say it. Do this and I swear to you, I will get you out of this as soon as I can.”

“Right, like I’m supposed to believe some arsehole toff like you.”

“You can believe what you want, but unless you play your part we will both be dead. Ask yourself which choice is the best one. Sleep well.”

Harry keeps her by his side at all times as he travels. He sees the way his men are looking at her, and he knows if given the chance they _would_ use her as Erik intended. Fortunately for them both Veronica is smart and plays her part. At a single signal from his hand, she kneels at Harry’s side during negotiations. She eats the food he places on the plate that is laid on the floor in front of her. She, when they disappear together, rubs her lips to make them red and swollen looking. Her eyes are dead and she never talks when there are other people around. However, after a month of him keeping to his promise to not touch her, she begins answering Harry when he speaks to her and her eyes lose the deadened gaze. 

One night he lets her sleep in the bed, un-cuffed, while he takes the sofa. He had searched the room while she was in the loo and he is positive that there is nothing she could use to kill him in his sleep. Even if she tried, twenty years of being a Kingsman means his reaction time is quicker than she can blink. 

She trusts him even more after that, and plays her part even better in public, leaning against his knee as he pets her, kissing his hand, standing behind him rubbing his shoulders as he talks shop. He buys her nicer clothes. Soon she is treated as his girlfriend rather than his property. His guards no longer look at her with lust but with deference after Harry puts a knife in the chest of a man who tries to grab her tits. 

After three months he decides to tell her who he is, not about Kingsman per se, just that he has been sent here to take the operation down from the inside. She looks skeptical at first but finally decides that believing him, and helping him, makes her chance of survival that much higher. He enlists her help in getting postcards out to Ian. He makes sure she gets to go shopping in the towns they visit where she can deftly drop the messages into the nearest post. 

Finally, after seven months in the field, he believes he has everything he is going to get. He has the names and the whereabouts of every single player in the operation tucked right inside his head. Kingsman will be able to coordinate with the other branches and take them off the board quickly and efficiently.  

They are back in Berlin, staying with Boothe once more, when Harry decides it is time to end it. The man refuses to let Harry stay in a hotel and Harry does not press as he does not want Boothe suspicious. While there, he has Veronica send one last small parcel to his home in London. While she is gone he takes the phone that has been turned off and hidden in a compartment in his luggage since day one. He turns it on and begins dictating what he knows. When he is finished he encrypts the file and sends the file along with a single message to the only contact in it. He turns it off and waits.

When Veronica returns he sits her on the bed.

“Did you mail the package as I asked?”

“I did, don’t I always?”

“Yes, you do, thank you.” He sits down next to her. “Today is going to go a little differently than you might have originally planned.” He reaches behind him and pulls out a gun. She immediately pulls back from him, fear in her eyes. “I guess I could have prefaced this a little better. We are leaving today. We are leaving and going back to England. But to do this we need to get out of here first. Do you know how to use this,” he asks, indicating the gun.

“Yeah, my brother had one for when he made deliveries. Showed me how to use it to protect myself.”

“Excellent, this one is yours then,” he says as he hands it to her. He hands her one of his suit jackets. “Put this on, the fabric is bulletproof.”

“Yeah, right, pull the other one, it’s got streamers.”

That actually forces a laugh out of Harry. “Trust me, it is. Now as we leave the room, and until I tell you otherwise, you are to stay behind me, speak only when I speak to you, and do exactly what I say when I say it, understood?”

“Yes.”

“If for some reason we get separated, or if I am taken down, you run until you are safe. Once you are safe, turn this phone on and call the number programmed into it. Tell the person who answers that I gave this phone and that you have Galahad’s information concerning the Rutherven mission. Tell them where you are and they will come get you and see you safe.”

“I’m supposed to leave you to these arseholes?”

“Yes, Veronica, you are, because as much as it pains me to say it, my mission here comes first, taking this organization down comes first, and if I have to choose between you and the mission, I have to choose the mission. More lives than ours are riding on this, but believe me when I say I will do everything in my power not to have to make that choice.”

Veronica looks at him, weighing his words. She nods once and puts the phone in her bra. 

“I am going to open the door in a moment, be ready.” 

She stands and kicks off her heels, moving to the closet to slip on some flats. The gun is in her hand held by her side. “I’m ready.”

He pockets his wallet, puts his suppressor on his gun, and opens the door to their room. There is a guard on his right. He puts a bullet in the man’s skull. 

Harry moves through the house, Veronica behind him, in lethal silence. Every guard he sees dies. Harry thinks this must be the easiest escape he has ever had right up until he hears Veronica make a startled noise behind him. He turns to see Boothe standing behind her with a gun pointed to the back of her head. Two guards flank him, each with their guns trained on Harry. 

“Fuck, Harry, what in the fuck is this shite now? You skivving off, killing my men. Did you think maybe you would take over the business yourself, is that it? All that time you was running all over, you were buying everyone out, you fucking prick, thinking it would be yours?”

“It did belong to my wife. I see it as my inheritance.”

“Fuck your wife, that bitch weren’t nothing without us. You fucking ain’t nothing without us. I am going to put a goddamn bullet right in your heart and then I am keeping this piece right here. No sense in throwing her out yet.”

Veronica is looking at him steadily. He finds her seeming lack of fear impressive. He looks back at her than makes a small movement with his hand. She instantly drops to her knees as Harry clicks his heels. He kicks out in a roundhouse, the blade in his shoe catching Boothe in the neck. As he comes out of the kick, lowering his foot to the floor, he raises his gun and shoots each guard with a double tap to the head. 

Harry knocks his toe against the floorboards, putting the blade back in his shoe. As Veronica stands he offers her his arm. 

“Well, darling, I think it is time we went home.”

—————

**Late 2011 - 2012**

Before Harry has the jet take him back to the manor, they touch down in Heathrow for a moment. Here Harry maneuvers Veronica through security with nary a blink of an eye. Once they were outside he reaches into his wallet and gives her every bit of money he has, which is a tidy sum, and a card with his name and a phone number on it.

“Take this and go home to your family, or disappear and become someone else. Do whatever you want Veronica, and if you ever need anything, call the number and tell whoever answers that you are Veronica and that you need to talk to Harry Rutherven. They will get the message to me.”

She nods looking at the money in her hands with wide eyes.

“I would like to say how sorry I am for everything that you had to go through. I would have spared you all of it had I been able.”

“And the others, what about sparing them?”

“I can promise you that Erik is about to come to a very swift and painful end, and every effort will be made to find anyone we can.”

“Thank you for not being the fucking pervert I thought you were going to be, and thank you for getting me out.”

He reaches out slowly with his hand and she puts hers inside of his, he shakes it gently. 

“Have a good life, Veronica.”

Her lips quirk up into a small smile. “My name is Missy, Melissa Matherson, in case you ever look for me,” she calls over her shoulder as she disappears into the crowd. 

He makes his way back to the jet and settles in. 

“All set, Galahad?”

“Take me home.”

—————

Harry comes home two days after Ian receives the painting. An alert goes out that a plane is requesting to land and Ian feels his heart climb its way into his throat. He hands his clipboard to Igraine. 

“You’re in charge until I come back.”

She smiles knowingly and nods. “Go say hello.”

When he gets to the hangar Arthur is standing there as well, watching the plane taxi in. 

“Something you need, Merlin?”

“No, sir. Just here to welcome Galahad home.”

Arthur looks at him suspiciously. “And how do you know this is Galahad, Merlin? Poking around where you don’t belong?”

“Let’s just call it a hunch.”

Arthur glares at him while Ian does his best not to laugh outright into his face.

The door opens and the stairs are pushed out. Ian’s knees are shaking. Harry appears in the doorway, thinner than Ian remembers, but impeccable in a navy windowpane-checked suit. Ian’s breath catches in his chest. Harry’s eyes scan out over the hanger, landing on Arthur first and then Ian. His face brightens with a smile. Ian begins walking towards him as he descends the steps.

They meet each other half way. 

“Merlin.”

“Galahad,” Ian says, extending his hand for Harry to shake, “welcome home and congratulations on a successful mission.”

“Thank you, Merlin.”

“Good, now that that is out of the way…” 

Ian places both hands on Harry’s face, pulls Harry in, and kisses him. Harry hesitates for a split second before responding. Harry’s arms wrap around Ian’s waist as Ian licks into Harry’s mouth. His entire body is trembling against Ian’s. He pulls back after a few moments and places his forehead against Harry’s. Ian hears Arthur’s shocked gasp and then his shoes clicking on the cement floor as he walks away. 

“Welcome back, Harry.”

Harry just breathes out his name, “Ian,” while still gripping his waist tightly. “Ian.”

—————

After an excruciatingly long debrief with Arthur, Harry is finally free to do as he pleases. He has no luggage having tossed everything that belonged to Harry when he and Veronica parted ways in Heathrow. Ian is waiting for him when he comes out from talking to Arthur. Harry feels like a slight breeze would knock him on his arse. 

“What do you need, Harry?” 

“A bath, a whiskey, a sleeping pill. Not necessarily in that order.”

“Would you like to go home or stay here?”

“Ian, please don’t take this the wrong way, but I would rather spend a few days alone, here at the manor. I think it would be best for me to be here, have a few appointments with Viviane, re-assimilate. I am not fit fucking company for my own dog at this point, and he’s dead.”

Ian looks disappointed. 

“I was looking forward to taking you home tonight Harry, but I know what it’s like to have to learn how to live in your own skin again. Let me get you settled into your rooms, draw you that bath and pour you a drink. Once you are comfortable, I will leave you be. You will let me know if you need anything though? ”

“That sounds perfect, and yes, Ian, you will be the first to know when I am fit for public consumption.”

“I’ll also have clothes sent to you this evening, and that goddamn robe you love so much.”

“And my slippers.”

“And your bloody slippers. Shall I send your crown as well, Your Majesty?”

Harry begins to laugh but it ends in a strangled sound. He stops walking and pulls Ian to him. “Thank you understanding, Ian.”

Ian wraps his arms around Harry, burying his nose in his hair just like he has always loved doing. He doesn’t smell the same right now. He smells of exhaustion, resignation, and guilt, but his hair still feels like it did when it brushed against his face over twenty years ago. Right now that is all Ian can ask for.

—————

Harry spends three days in solitude, other than his twice daily visits with Viviane, before he feels ready to talk to Ian. He choses his clothes with care, wearing the soft oatmeal cardigan Ian always favored on him with causal navy trousers. He doesn’t bother slicking back his hair. Ian prefers it free anyway. 

Within an hour of sending for Ian he is knocking at Harry’s door.

“Harry,” Ian starts when Harry opens the door, “what can I do for you?”

“So formal, Ian?” Harry asks with a wink. “Shall we use each other’s code names?”

“No, you arse, I was trying not to crowd you.”

“I am feeling much more myself, thank you. Can you be away from Avalon for a while?”

“Most likely. Igraine has things well under control. Barring any international emergencies, I should not be expected back until tomorrow morning.”

“Excellent, please sit. Tea? I just had some sent up from the kitchens.”

“Please.”

Harry hands Ian his tea and then sits in the chair opposite him with his own. He takes a long look at Ian, taking his smart bark brown jumper and black trousers. The tie is still there, black as well, and the silver frames of his glasses glint in the fading light of the day. He looks good, settled, Harry thinks.

“You look good, Ian. You seem more at ease than I have ever seen you look. You’ve lost that vaguely pinched and constipated look you used to have permanently etched on your face.” Ian startles him by laughing loudly.

“You cheeky fuck. You look good as well Harry, better than you did walking off that plane. You still look insufferably smug though, but I suppose that’s your natural state.”

“Touché. So, kissing me in front of Arthur? I have to say I didn’t see that coming. How’s the old bastard taking it? No signs of a heart attack?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“Pity.”

“He couldn’t even look me in the eye the next morning during the meeting. He hasn’t been this disappointed in me since the first time the old Merlin brought me in to let him know I was being trained as his second.” Ian sips his tea for a moment. “Oh, James and Alistair say welcome back and that they will be over as soon as you get home to cheer you up.”

“Who said I am depressed?”

“James thinks that being away from him for so long must have driven you into a pit of despair. I think he just wants to show off his new suit. Some mustard-colored, checked monstrosity. I think I saw Dagonet crying as he stitched it. It suits him though. Drives Alistair round the twist.”

“And you?”

“Oh, I am sure I drive Alistair round the twist as well.”

Harry looks completely unimpressed.

“Yes, Harry, I know what you meant. You were right earlier, I am more at ease with myself. I’ve been seeing Viviane since you’ve been gone. Honestly, I wish I would have _years_ ago. She’s helping me work through a lot of the shite I’ve been keeping bottled up, the orphanage, my sexuality, our relationship. She is like a fucking dog when she gets her teeth into something and she won’t let you deflect. I needed someone to call my on my bullshite and she did.”

“She is rather formidable. I’ve actually been on the receiving end of a telling off from her that was so scathing I swear I hear in my sleep.” 

“She’s told me off a fair amount as well. She should have been an agent with the size of her balls.”

“Indeed.”

“I volunteer twice a month at a shelter for LGBT kids who are homeless, most of them have been kicked out by their parents for being gay. Helping them process what their parents did to them is just as helpful in allowing me to process the orphanage.”

Harry beams at him. “Ian, bloody well done. Hearing that makes this nightmare of a mission worth it.”

“I’ve read the debrief between you and Arthur. The mission sounded like absolute shite, but the information you gathered is already helping. We’ve coordinated with the other branches since you’ve been back and are already taking down some of the networks. You will be particularly pleased to know that Erik in Sweden tried to take on Gareth and Beaumains when they came for him, he failed spectacularly.”

“Good,” Harry says, “although I wish I could have taken care of him myself.” Harry remembers being forced to use Veronica, he sees the faces of those people kneeling on the floor waiting to be sold, and for a moment he feels as if he is going to be sick. He presses the knuckles of his hand to his lips. Ian puts down his tea and begins to lean towards him but Harry stops him with a hand. 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No, I really don’t, not now at least. I am still working through a few things from it.” Harry mentally shakes himself. “Tell me more about what you have been doing while I was gone. I missed your voice terribly while I was gone.”

“Me as well.”

“That’s because no one loves the sound of their own voice more than you.”

“If you are just going to be a smartarse, I can leave you to it.”

“No, because you missed me just as much.”

“God, I did, Harry. I fucking did. I called your voicemail a hundred times just to hear your greeting. If you could just delete any messages I actually left, I’d be very happy.”

“Too late, I’ve listened to them all. The pornographic one was exceptionally inspired. Can you really do that with your tongue?”

Ian does not blush. “Play your cards right and maybe you will find out.”

“You will find me a most gifted card player, Ian, I assure you,” Harry says. 

Ian holds eyes contact and hums. “We’ll see.”

“Did anything exciting happen while I was gone?”

“James and Alistair went out on a mission together and managed to blow up a small hotel in Peru. Beaumains, who is turning out much better than his predecessor…”

“A blow-up doll would have been better than his predecessor.”

“Yes, _anyway_ , he managed to crash one of the Martins into the pond while showing off his driving skills to one of the women in Glastonbury. Chester nearly had a fucking coronary when he found out. The lad was grounded for a month, but he and his lady love are doing quite well the last I heard. Oh, and I got in a street brawl with some thugs that were beating on one of the shelter kids.”

“Ian, I am _shocked_ at your lack of decorum. A gentleman does not start fights in the middle of the streets.” Harry leans forward, his eyes glinting. “Did you hospitalize them?”

“Most likely.”

“Excellent, perhaps we might both come upon them in the future. I’d hate to let you have all the fun.”

Ian rolls his eyes. “Oh, to be sure. Thanks to a group meeting I go to monthly, I’ve even started coming out to people I know, which I realized, is comprised totally of the people I work with, which makes it all just little anti-climatic. I can’t believe I thought no one knew all these years. So far the only person who was surprised was Chester, although that may have been from how I told him.”

“How?”

“By kissing you in the hangar.”

“Ah, yes, we should see if there is any security footage from that. I would love to see his face.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“So, a monthly support group? I am having a hard time picturing you talking to two people much less an entire roomful.”

“My skin crawled the first time I went and I almost left, but I am glad I didn’t. The group is good for me, I plan to keep going to it. I also get hit on quite a bit which gives me an ego boost to counteract the new lines I keep finding around my eyes.”

Harry’s eyes become blank. “That’s good. So are you seeing someone?” Harry busies himself with his tea.

“I would like to think so, we haven’t really talked about it yet.”

Harry feels his stomach turn. This is what he meant Ian to do, to get out, meet people, find his place in the community without Harry. He knew this was possible.

“I am very happy for you then, although if he turns out to be an utter knob I will hurt him.”

“I would rather you didn’t.”

“You mean how you didn’t completely ruin Claude’s life? The man couldn’t get approved for a Tesco ClubCard after you were done.”

“I know nothing other than the little twat deserved it.”

Harry hums in agreement.

“Harry, you do realize I am talking about you, you complete numpty.”

“So we are seeing each other then? Is that the decision you have come to?”

“That depends on how you feel after being away from me for so long. I rather think it might be a decision that we need to make _together_ , especially since you had your own reservations. I know you probably had very little time to consider them with what you were doing so if you need some more time…”

“I did have time to consider them, mostly when flying back and forth between criminals, and I always ended up at the same crossroads. I cannot change our past, the good or the bad, nor would I want to. But what I can do is make a decision to either let our past, and my feelings on it, dictate any future relationship we may have, or really try to let it go so that we can start as fresh as possible. If you were willing to work on overcoming your issues for us, you deserved for me to give you the same courtesy. After I had a close call in Russia, a very close one, I realized that I did not want to be facing my death regretting that I never allowed us this chance when it was presented to me.”

Harry sees Ian’s hand tighten around his cup.

“I talked to Viviane about it while I have been here, and will most likely continue to in future sessions, but I want to let go of my past hurts and resentments. I am sure I will throw them in your face once in a while when we fight. I am a vicious bastard when I am angry and will use anything I have to get the upper hand, but I think, that if you are willing, I would like to see where we can go from here. Together. So I ask you, what do you want, Ian?”

“You, Harry, just you, forever. I am fully aware it won’t be easy. You may be vicious bastard who lash out, but I am an insecure, jealous, possessive arsehole who will hate to see you smile at anyone but me. And, while I have done a lot of work on the scars left by the orphanage, I still have days when I struggle with who I am, when I may need time alone, but I will do my best to no longer hide. 

“I want to be with you and anyone who takes issue with that can go fuck themselves. That said however, I would like to keep things mostly professional at work, although I could be convinced for a quick shag in the cleaning closet once in a while I think, if for no other reason to help James and Alistair scandalize Arthur.”

“Jesus, Ian. I wasn’t expecting all that.”

“Oh, I must have misunderstood…”

“I mean a shag in the cleaning closet, surely we can find some place closer to the man’s office than that. I will ask James for some recommendations.”

“Oh, I am sure he has them, I think those two have fucked all over the manor by now.”

“Then we best get started if we plan to catch up.”

Ian sets down his tea. “We could get started right here if you like,” he says, his voice low and his eyes dark.

“Actually I was thinking I would prefer it, at least tonight, in my own bed. Would you have to stop by your flat for anything?”

“No. I actually… well.”

“What Ian? Spit it out.”

“I may have moved into your house while you were gone.”

Harry’s eyes widen. “I do beg your pardon.”

“I moved into your house. I didn’t bring my things over…”

“That's good, they would clash horribly with my decor. Auntie Marie would roll over in her grave.”

“Except for the office. I did give that a little bit of a do over.”

“How much of one?”

“Nothing major, just paint, new furniture, an actual computer from the past five years. It’s very modern looking I’ll have you know. I even framed all those ridiculous Sun covers you collect. But I can move back into my flat, give you some space.”

“Ian, if we can make it through the hell we have put each other through, we can make living together work. We will have to do something about your snoring though. It’s like sleeping next to a freight train. The neighbors will complain.”

“Harry, if they haven’t complained about how you scream your head off when you come, I doubt my snoring will bother them.”

“I do not scream, I am just vocally appreciative of the efforts you expend regarding my sexual gratification.”

“Why don’t we go home and put that theory to the test?”

—————

They barely make it through the door before clothes are coming off. Ian gets Harry pressed up against the door and a thigh between his legs so Harry has something to grind on. He begins kissing Harry’s neck, quick bites between the kisses to make Harry gasp. Ian forgot how much he loved those sounds coming from Harry’s mouth.

“As amenable as I am to the wall, _fuck_ ,” Harry says when Ian palms his cock through his trousers, “I would very much like to make it to the bedroom. 

“Jesus, Harry, did you age another twenty years while you were gone? Bed it is then.”

Ian drags Harry by the hand, both of them adjusting themselves in their trousers, up the stairs, and into the bedroom. Harry glances in the office as he goes by and stops in his tracks.

“Now wait, you painted the walls red? Why in the fuck would you paint them _red_ of all colors?”

“Harry, I swear if you do not get in this bedroom and take off your fucking clothes, I will happily go to my group meeting and see if a gentleman named Nick would like to revisit his invitation to have me over for ‘drinks.’”

Harry storms in the bedroom. “Like fucking hell you will. Might I suggest we do away with the formalities and just strip ourselves? Condoms and lube still in the drawer next to the bed?”

“Yes,” Ian says as he is practically tearing off his clothes, his eyes traveling over Harry as he strips as well.

“Excellent. Nice to know you left some things intact.”

“I know that it is easier for men who are getting on in their age to remember where things are if they stay in familiar places,” Ian says as he finally stands naked. 

“Explains why you have never removed the stick from your arse then, you’d lose it,” Harry replies as he looks up at Ian gloriously nude and then promptly loses his balance pulling his legs from his pants.

“Nice to know I still have it,” Ian says.

Ian moves to the table and pulls out a strip of condoms and lube, laying them on the bed.

“Fuck you.”

“That’s what I am hoping for.” 

Ian walks up to Harry, pulls him in for one of his patently filthy snogs, while he backs him up to the bed. Harry falls back, his legs dropping open and Ian quickly lays on top of him, slotting themselves together. For a moment neither of them move, they simply lay there, faces pressed into the other’s neck, arms wrapped around the other. They simply breathe.

Ian pulls back, “I am just stupidly in love with you Harry Hart. I will never be able to fully apologize for the time I wasted.”

“Ian, right at this moment I could care less. We are here now, and we will continue to be. I will go out into the world and you will always bring me home, always, and we will fight and fuck and annoy the pants off each other until we are in a care home together. It will be perfectly wonderful and completely awful at the same time, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. But, if you are quite done being a sap for a moment, my cock is still rather hard and I would like to do something with it.”

Ian reaches between them and strokes Harry lightly. “Like this?”

“It’s a start.” 

Ian moves down his body until he can get Harry in his mouth. He grabs a condom, rolls it on to Harry and then takes the head into his mouth. He suckles lightly a few times. 

“You’re quite warm now, darling.”

Ian slowly moves down Harry’s cock until his nose is against Harry’s pubic hair and the head of his cock is lodged in Ian’s throat. He swallows. Harry arches of the bed.

“Jesus, Ian, I always forget how fucking good you are. Oh, god. Your fucking mouth. It’s obscene.” Harry says, watching Ian’s cheeks hollow around him. Harry allows it for a few minutes and then pulls Ian back up. “I am going to come if you keep doing that and I am not quite ready for it to be over yet.”

Ian lays over the top of Harry and kisses him while Harry wraps his large hand around both of them and strokes, not to bring them off, just enough to keep things moving along. Ian bends and sucks a lurid love bite into Harry’s neck. 

“Arthur will love seeing _that_ tomorrow,” Ian says, proudly surveying his work.

“If you ever say his name while I have your cock in my hands again, I swear it will rip it off. See, I’m going soft already.”

They continue to kiss and rut against one another until Harry opens the lube one handed, gets some on his hand and reaches back with one hand to spread Ian’s cheeks while the other slowly begins to finger him. Ian goes boneless on top of Harry, a long shuddering breath leaving him.

“Harry, yes.”

“On your back, if you please, Ian.”

Ian moves onto his back and Harry settles on his knees between Ian’s legs. One hand continues to open him while the other travels from petting his inner thigh to lazily stroking him. Ian opens his legs further. “Please, Harry…”

“All in good time. I spent many nights thinking about this so you will have to indulge me just a bit more,” Harry says, moving up the three fingers, pumping them in and out slowly. Ian pushes back.

“God, that’s right, darling. Fuck yourself on my hand. You are _gorgeous_.”

Harry kneels up and Ian pulls his knees to his chest. Harry lines up and slowly fucks in until he bottoms out. He falls forward, bracing himself on his forearms, and kisses Ian deeply. 

“Even better than I remembered. You feel decadent, like hot silk surrounding me.” 

Harry begins to move and Ian wraps his legs around Harry’s back. 

“I don’t know how long I am going to last. I do hope you won’t judge me.”

“Same here,” Ian grunts out. He can already feel his orgasm building, the feeling of Harry taking him physically while also taking him back metaphorically is overwhelming.  

“Good, I want to feel you come in me, Harry. I cannot wait until we don’t need condoms so I can feel you fill me up, mark me as yours,” Ian whispers in Harry’s ear.

Harry begins thrusting harder, deeper, his cock dragging over Ian’s prostate every other slide. His hips rock up to meet Harry, their skin smacks together loudly. Harry pants against his neck. “Jesus,” he gets out, “Ian…”

“I thought about this so many times while you were gone, lying our bed alone, my cock in my hands. I thought about you fucking me until I am stupid with it, and me fucking you until you lose all control and just beg me for it, over and over. I’d finger myself thinking - _right there, please, fucking don’t stop_ \- about you.”

“Oh, God…” Harry’s hips are still slamming against his even while they are losing their rhythm. He is shaking apart in Ian’s arms. Ian holds on tighter. His orgasm is almost there, he just needs a little something to… and Harry nails his prostate dead on. His head falls back, his eyes roll into his head, his back arches, and a long, low moan rumbles out of his chest. He can feel himself clenching down on Harry, his hips bucking with the force of his orgasm. His nails dig into Harry’s back. Harry hisses and slams in once more, as deep as he can go, and comes, yelling out Ian’s name.

Harry falls onto him, breathing heavy for a moment before he pulls out gently. He gets up to dispose of the condom and get a warm flannel to clean Ian up. Once back in bed he curls up to Ian, his head on Ian’s chest with Ian arms wrapped around him.

“That’s my point proven,” Ian says.

“What point?”

“That you’re a screamer. The Harrows down the street probably heard you.”

“Fuck off, I’ll send them a goddamn fruit basket or something.”

“I think Mr. Harrow is allergic to citrus.”

“Ian, you, as bloody usual, are fucking up my afterglow. Now shut up and pet my head. I intend to take a small nap after which I plan on riding you into the mattress.”

“Excellent idea.”

“Of course it is, I thought of it.”

—————

**2014**

Ian and Harry are talking in Ian’s office. Harry has his long legs stretched out with his feet resting on Ian’s knees while Ian rubs circles on his ankle through his socks. 

“Picked your candidate for Lancelot yet, Harry?”

“Arthur has picked him for me, I’m supposed to fetch him from Kings Cross,” Harry looks at his watch, “oh, an hour ago. Nothing for it now. If he can’t find his way to the shop from the station he’s already failed. I have very little hope for him if Arthur finds him acceptable.”

“No surprises there.”

“How’s Percival? Has he been back in?” 

“No, he has not, although he rang me this morning to tell me he is putting forth his niece, the one he and James adopted, as his candidate. First gays, now a woman? Arthur will have a stroke.”

“Wonderful, serves the cunt right for making Percival use vacation days instead of allowing him compassionate leave for James’ death. We need to go by and see him. I can’t even imagine what he is going through. Seventeen years and then James is just gone. On what was supposed to be a bloody recon mission at that. He doesn’t even have a body to bury. It’s fucking barbaric, protocols be damned.”

Ian hums sympathetically, no doubt thinking of the time he watched Harry die right in front of him. Harry nudges him with his foot and smiles at him. _I’m right here_ , he thinks. Ian smiles back. 

Harry’s glasses ping.

“Galahad.”

“Pardon the intrusion, Galahad, but a phone call was just made and the phrase ‘Oxfords, not brogues” was used. It came from Holborn.”

“Thank you. I am on my way,” he says, swinging his legs down.

“What’s that?”

“Lee Unwin’s son just called in his favor. Apparently, he is sitting in Holborn.”

“This should be interesting.”

“Yes, it should that if nothing else,” Harry says, ducking down for a kiss. 

Ian lays his fingers across Harry’s lips, his green eyes looking up at Harry from over his glasses. “Don’t forget to have your candidate here by nine. Not half nine, not ten. Nine.” He removes his finger and replaces it with his lips.

“Yes, yes. Christ, you are the biggest nag I have ever encountered, and had you known my mother you would see that as the insult it is.”

“I only nag because you’re a fucking idiot who can’t read his own goddamn watch. Nine, Galahad.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “You know, technically, _Merlin_ , I outrank you.”

“And you know _technically_ I could give a fuck,” Ian replies not looking up from his tablet. “Oh, and don’t forget that we need milk. Some arsehole poured half of the carton is his tea this morning. Now go see to Lee’s son.”

On the way to the station Harry uses his connections, and a not inconsiderable amount of money, to make Lee’s boy’s problems go away. After that, he spends a couple minutes flipping through the boy’s, Eggsy’s, file. Harry is impressed by some of it, less than impressed by the rest. 

After telling the driver to stay put, he leans up against the wall to wait. Ian’s voice comes over his glasses.

“Are you actually fucking posing? Oh my fucking God!” The line goes dead before Harry can respond. Moments later a young man in atrocious clothing comes down the steps.

“Eggsy,” Harry calls, “would you like a lift home?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the context of an undercover mission Harry is given a woman for sexual use by one of the criminals he is dealing with. As a test the criminal makes the woman perform a sexual act on Harry, at gun point, against his and her will. The scene starts with the criminal telling her to do so and ends a few sentences later when she reaches for Harry's belt. Nothing is described.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a self-beta'd work and it has not been brit picked. If you see anything I missed please let me know. 
> 
> I am ViolyntFemme on [tumblr](http://violyntfemme.tumblr.com) as well if you would like to come yell at me :)


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